tywry.  V. 

T-dr.  17,  HOI*. 

i,  / aJl  'Q'jitttf 
fjrfr.  \7,  1120 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/animalheroesbein00seto_0 


ANIMAL  HE.FVOE.S 

Being  tlje  Histories  of  a Cat, 
aDog,  a Pigeon,  a Lynx, 
rM?WoLVE5  G-  a Reindeer, 
and  in  Elucidation  oftyeSmt 
over  ZOO  DRAWINGS 

By  ERNEST  THOMPSON  ^ETON, 


Author  of  Wild  Animls Wave  Known,  Biography  of  b.  Grizzly, 
Two  Little  Savages  etc.  naturalist  to 

Govi  of  Manitoba 


Published  by  Charles  ^cbibner,’^  *Ton^ 

-MDCCCCV. 


First  Impression 

October 

4 

1905 


Copyright  by  The  Century  Co.,  Nov.,  1901 
The  White  Reindeer 
Copyright,  1 903-4-5,  by 
Curtis  Publishing  Co. 

Copyright,  1905,  by 
Ernest  Thompson  Seton 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS 


In  this  Book  the  designs  for  cover,  title- 
page,  and  general  make-up  were 
done  by  Grace  Gallatin  Seton 


'o’ 

A List  of  the  Stories  in  this  Book 

And  their  Full-page  Drawings 

PAGE 

Che  Slum  Cat 1 1 

“ Yo-ow  ! ” rumbled  the  Yellow  One  . 27 

“ There,  high  on  Velvet  Cushions,  was 
his  Slum  Kitty  ” 43 

Hrnaux : Zbc  Chronicle  of  a Doming  pigeon  7 1 

“ He  circled  out  of  sight  above  the 

Ship  ” 83 

“ The  Pirates  in  Ambush  ” . . . .105 

Badlands  Billy:  Zbc  CClolf  that  Qlon  . .109 

Billy  finds  a Foster-mother  . . . .119 


5 


A List  of  the  Stories  in  this  Book 

PAGE 

Their  narrow  Escape  from  Trap  and 

Gun 13 1 

“ That  ’shim” 145 

“The  Great  Wolf  turned  and  faced 
them  ” 1 61 

Zbc  Boy  and  the  Lynx 167 

One  day  she  found  a Porcupine  . .175 

“There  stood  the  Old  One,  ...  as 

fierce  as  a Tigress  ” 189 

He  made  a feeble  lunge  at  the 
Brute 201 

Little  CBarborse:  Zb e Distory  of  a 'Jack- 

rabbit  205 

The  Warhorse  doing  a Spy-hop  . .225 

The  second  Dogs  were  suffering  . .253 

Snap:  Zbc  Story  of  a Bull-terrier  . 257 

Snap 265 

The  bounding  ball  of  white  ....  283 

Cbe  Winnipeg  CClolf 287 

“ Surrounded  by  a score  of  Dogs  was 

a Great  Gray-wolf” 293 

“ His  dear  Wolfie  ” 305 

6 


A List  of  the  Stories  in  this  Book 

PAGE 

Che  Legend  of  the  CClhite  Reindeer  . 321 

The  White  Renskalv  facing  the  Wol- 
verene   339 

The  Passing  of  the  King  Ren  . . . 363 


Note  to  Reader 


HERO  is  an  individual  of  unusual  gifts 


and  achievements.  Whether  it  be  man 
or  animal,  this  definition  applies ; and  it  is  the 
histories  of  such  that  appeal  to  the  imagination 
and  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  hear  them. 

In  this  volume  every  one  of  the  stories, 
though  more  or  less  composite,  is  founded  on 
the  actual  life  of  a veritable  animal  hero. 
The  most  composite  is  the  White  Reindeer. 
This  story  I wrote  by  Utrovand  in  Norway 
during  the  summer  of  1900,  while  the  Rein- 
deer herds  grazed  in  sight  on  the  near  uplands. 

The  Lynx  is  founded  on  some  of  my  own 
early  experiences  in  the  backwoods. 

It  is  less  than  ten  years  since  the  ‘Jack 
Warhorse  ’ won  his  hero-crown.  Thousands 
of  “ Kaskadoans  ” will  remember  him,  and  by 


9 


Note  to  Reader 


the  name  Warhorse  his  coursing  exploits  are 
recorded  in  several  daily  papers. 

The  least  composite  is  Arnaux.  It  is  so 
nearly  historical  that  several  who  knew  the 
bird  have  supplied  additional  items  of  infor- 
mation. 

The  nest  of  the  destroying  Peregrines,  with 
its  owners  and  their  young,  is  now  to  be  seen 
in  the  American  Museum  of  Natural  History 
of  New  York.  The  Museum  authorities  in- 
form me  that  Pigeon  badges  with  the  following 
numbers  were  found  in  the  nest : 9970— S,  1696, 
^ 63,  77>  J-  F-  52>  Ex-  7°5>  6-1894,  C 20900. 
Perhaps  some  Pigeon-lover  may  learn  from 
these  lines  the  fate  of  one  or  other  wonderful 
flier  that  has  long  been  recorded  “ never  re- 
turned.” 


10 


The  Slum  Cat 


LIFE  I 
I 

-E-A-T!  M-e-a-t!”  came 

shrilling  down  Scrimper’s 
Alley.  Surely  the  Pied  Piper 
of  Hamelin  was  there,  for 
it  seemed  that  all  the  Cats 
in  the  neighborhood  were 
running  toward  the  sound, 
though  the  Dogs,  it  must  be  confessed,  looked 
scornfully  indifferent. 

“ Meat!  Meat!  ” and  louder ; then  the  centre 
of  attraction  came  in  view — a rough,  dirty  little 
man  with  a push-cart ; while  straggling  behind 
him  were  a score  of  Cats  that  joined  in  his  cry 
with  a sound  nearly  the  same  as  his  own.  Every 
fifty  yards,  that  is,  as  soon  as  a goodly  throng 


i3 


The  Slum  Cat 


of  Cats  was  gathered,  the  push-cart  stopped. 
The  man  with  the  magic  voice  took  out  of  the 
box  in  his  cart  a skewer  on  which  were  pieces 
of  strong-smelling  boiled  liver.  With  a long 
stick  he  pushed  the  pieces  off.  Each  Cat  seized 
on  one,  and  wheeling,  with  a slight  depression 
of  the  ears  and  a little  tiger  growl  and  glare, 
she  rushed  away  with  her  prize  to  devour  it  in 
some  safe  retreat. 

“ Meat ! Meat ! ” And  still  they  came  to  get 
their  portions.  All  were  well  known  to  the 
meat-man.  There  was  Castiglione’s  Tiger ; this 
was  Jones’s  Black;  here  was  Pralitsky’s  “Tor- 
kershell,”  and  this  was  Madame  Danton’s  White  ; 
there  sneaked  Blenkinshoff’s  Maltee,  and  that 
climbing  on  the  barrow  was  Sawyer’s  old  Or- 
ange Billy,  an  impudent  fraud  that  never  had 
had  any  financial  backing, — all  to  be  remem- 
bered and  kept  in  account.  This  one’s  owner 
was  sure  pay,  a dime  a week  ; that  one’s  doubt- 
ful. There  was  John  Washee’s  Cat,  that  got 
only  a small  piece  because  John  was  in  arrears. 
Then  there  was  the  saloon-keeper’s  collared  and 
ribboned  ratter,  which  got  an  extra  lump  be- 
cause the  ‘barkeep  ’ was  liberal ; and  the  rounds- 


man’s  Cat,  that  brought  no  cash,  but  got  un- 
usual consideration  because  the  meat-man  did. 
But  there  were  others.  A black  Cat  with  a 
white  nose  came  rushing  confidently  with  the 
rest,  only  to  be  repulsed  savagely.  Alas!  Pussy 
did  not  understand.  She  had  been  a pensioner 
of  the  barrow  for  months.  Why  this  unkind 
change?  It  was  beyond  her  comprehension. 
But  the  meat-man  knew.  Her  mistress  had 
stopped  payment.  The  meat-man  kept  no 
books  but  his  memory,  and  it  never  was  at  fault. 

Outside  this  patrician  ‘ four  hundred  ’ about 
the  barrow,  were  other  Cats,  keeping  away  from 
the  push-cart  because  they  were  not  on  the 
list,  the  Social  Register  as  it  were,  yet  fascinated 
by  the  heavenly  smell  and  the  faint  possibility 
of  accidental  good  luck.  Among  these  hang- 
ers-on was  a thin  gray  Slummer,  a homeless 
Cat  that  lived  by  her  wits — slab-sided  and  not 
over-clean.  One  could  see  at  a glance  that  she 
was  doing  her  duty  by  a family  in  some  out-of- 
the-way  corner.  She  kept  one  eye  on  the  bar- 
row  circle  and  the  other  on  the  possible  Dogs. 
She  saw  a score  of  happy  Cats  slink  off  with 
their  delicious  * daily  ’ and  their  tiger-like  air, 


15 


The  Slum  Cat 


but  no  opening  for  her,  till  a big  Tom  of  her 
own  class  sprang  on  a little  pensioner  with  in- 
tent to  rob.  The  victim  dropped  the  meat 
to  defend  herself  against  the  enemy,  and  before 
the  ‘ all-powerful  ’ could  intervene,  the  gray 
Slummer  saw  her  chance,  seized  the  prize,  and 
was  gone. 

She  went  through  the  hole  in  Menzie’s  side 
door  and  over  the  wall  at  the  back,  then  sat 
down  and  devoured  the  lump  of  liver,  licked 
her  chops,  felt  absolutely  happy,  and  set  out 
by  devious  ways  to  the  rubbish-yard,  where, 
in  the  bottom  of  an  old  cracker-box,  her  fam- 
ily was  awaiting  her.  A plaintive  mewing 
reached  her  ears.  She  went  at  speed  and 
reached  the  box  to  see  a huge  Black  Tom-cat 
calmly  destroying  her  brood.  He  was  twice 
as  big  as  she,  but  she  went  at  him  with  all  her 
strength,  and  he  did  as  most  animals  will  do  when 
caught  wrong-doing,  he  turned  and  ran  away. 
Only  one  was  left,  a little  thing  like  its  mother, 
but  of  more  pronounced  color — gray  with  black 
spots,  and  a white  touch  on  nose,  ears,  and  tail- 
tip.  There  can  be  no  question  of  the  mother’s 
grief  for  a few  days ; but  that  wore  off,  and  all 
16 


The  Slum  Cat 


her  care  was  for  the  survivor.  That  benevo- 
lence was  as  far  as  possible  from  the  motives 
of  the  murderous  old  Tom  there  can  be  no 
doubt ; but  he  proved  a blessing  in  deep  dis- 
guise, for  both  mother  and  Kit  were  visibly- 
bettered  in  a short  time.  The  daily  quest  for 
food  continued.  The  meat-man  rarely  proved 
a success,  but  the  ash-cans  were  there,  and  if 
they  did  not  afford  a meat-supply,  at  least  they 
were  sure  to  produce  potato-skins  that  could 
be  used  to  allay  the  gripe  of  hunger  for  an- 
other day. 

One  night  the  mother  Cat  smelt  a wonderful 
smell  that  came  from  the  East  River  at  the  end 
of  the  alley.  A new  smell  always  needs  inves- 
tigating, and  when  it  is  attractive  as  well  as 
new,  there  is  but  one  course  open.  It  led 
Pussy  to  the  docks  a block  away,  and  then 
out  on  a wharf,  away  from  any  cover  but  the 
night.  A sudden  noise,  a growl  and  a rush, 
were  the  first  notice  she  had  that  she  was  cut 
off  by  her  old  enemy,  the  Wharf  Dog.  There 
was  only  one  escape.  She  leaped  from  the 
wharf  to  the  vessel  from  which  the  smell  came. 
The  Dog  could  not  follow,  so  when  the  fish- 

17 


The  Slum  Cat 


boat  sailed  in  the  morning  Pussy  unwillingly 
went  with  her  and  was  seen  no  more. 

II 

The  Slum  Kitten  waited  in  vain  for  her  mother. 
The  morning  came  and  went.  She  became 
very  hungry.  Toward  evening  a deep-laid  in- 
stinct drove  her  forth  to  seek  food.  She  slunk 
out  of  the  old  box,  and  feeling  her  way  silently 
among  the  rubbish,  she  smelt  everything  that 
seemed  eatable,  but  without  finding  food.  At 
length  she  reached  the  wooden  steps  leading 
down  into  Jap  Malee’s  bird-store  underground. 
The  door  was  open  a little.  She  wandered 
into  a world  of  rank  and  curious  smells  and  a 
number  of  living  things  in  cages  all  about  her. 
A negro  was  sitting  idly  on  a box  in  a corner. 
He  saw  the  little  stranger  enter  and  watched  it 
curiously.  It  wandered  past  some  Rabbits. 
They  paid  no  heed.  It  came  to  a wide-barred 
cage  in  which  was  a Fox.  The  gentleman 
with  the  bushy  tail  was  in  a far  corner.  He 
crouched  low ; his  eyes  glowed.  The  Kitten 
wandered,  sniffing,  up  to  the  bars,  put  its  head 

18 


The  Slum  Cat 


in,  sniffed  again,  then  made  toward  the  feed- 
pan,  to  be  seized  in  a flash  by  the  crouching 
Fox.  It  gave  a frightened  “ mew,”  but  a single 
shake  cut  that  short  and  would  have  ended 
Kitty’s  nine  lives  at  once,  had  not  the  negro 
come  to  the  rescue.  He  had  no  weapon  and 
could  not  get  into  the  cage,  but  he  spat  with 
such  copious  vigor  in  the  Fox’s  face  that  he 
dropped  the  Kitten  and  returned  to  the  corner, 
there  to  sit  blinking  his  eyes  in  sullen  fear. 

The  negro  pulled  the  Kitten  out.  The  shake 
of  the  beast  of  prey  seemed  to  have  stunned 
the  victim,  really  to  have  saved  it  much  suffer- 
ing. The  Kitten  seemed  unharmed,  but  giddy. 
It  tottered  in  a circle  for  a time,  then  slowly 
revived,  and  a few  minutes  later  was  purring 
in  the  negro’s  lap,  apparently  none  the 
worse,  when  Jap  Malee,  the  bird-man,  came 
home. 

Jap  was  not  an  Oriental;  he  was  a full- 
blooded  Cockney,  but  his  eyes  were  such  little 
accidental  slits  aslant  in  his  round,  flat  face,  that 
his  first  name  was  forgotten  in  the  highly  descrip- 
tive title  of  “Jap.”  He  was  not  especially  un- 
kind to  the  birds  and  beasts  whose  sales  were 


1 9 


The  Slum  Cat 

supposed  to  furnish  his  living,  but  his  eye  was 
on  the  main  chance  ; he  knew  what  he  wanted. 
He  did  n’t  want  the  Slum  Kitten. 

The  negro  gave  it  all  the  food  it  could  eat, 
then  carried  it  to  a distant  block  and  dropped 
it  in  a neighboring  iron-yard. 

Ill 

One  full  meal  is  as  much  as  any  one  needs 
in  two  or  three  days,  and  under  the  influence 
of  this  stored-up  heat  and  power,  Kitty  was 
very  lively.  She  walked  around  the  piled-up 
rubbish,  cast  curious  glances  on  far-away  Ca- 
nary-birds in  cages  that  hung  from  high  win- 
dows ; she  peeped  over  fences,  discovered  a 
large  Dog,  got  quietly  down  again,  and  pres- 
ently finding  a sheltered  place  in  full  sun- 
light, she  lay  down  and  slept  for  an  hour.  A 
slight  ‘ sniff  ’ awakened  her,  and  before  her 
stood  a large  Black  Cat  with  glowing  green 
eyes,  and  the  thick  neck  and  square  jaws  that 
distinguish  the  Tom  ; a scar  marked  his  cheek, 
and  his  left  ear  was  torn.  His  look  was  far 
from  friendly ; his  ears  moved  backward  a little, 


20 


The  Slum  Cat 


his  tail  twitched,  and  a faint,  deep  sound  came 
from  his  throat.  The  Kitten  innocently  walked 
toward  him.  She  did  not  remember  him.  He 
rubbed  the  sides  of  his  jaws  on  a post,  and 
quietly,  slowly  turned  and  disappeared.  The 
last  that  she  saw  of  him  was  the  end  of  his  tail 
twitching  from  side  to  side  ; and  the  little  Slum- 
mer  had  no  idea  that  she  had  been  as  near 
death  to-day,  as  she  had  been  when  she  ven- 
tured into  the  fox-cage. 

As  night  came  on  the  Kitten  began  to  feel 
hungry.  She  examined  carefully  the  long  in- 
visible colored  stream  that  the  wind  is  made  of. 
She  selected  the  most  interesting  of  its  strands, 
and,  nose-led,  followed.  In  the  corner  of  the 
iron-yard  was  a box  of  garbage.  Among  this 
she  found  something  that  answered  fairly  well 
for  food ; a bucket  of  water  under  a faucet  of- 
fered a chance  to  quench  her  thirst. 

The  night  was  spent  chiefly  in  prowling  about 
and  learning  the  main  lines  of  the  iron-yard. 
The  next  day  she  passed  as  before,  sleeping  in 
the  sun.  Thus  the  time  wore  on.  Sometimes 
she  found  a good  meal  at  the  garbage-box, 
sometimes  there  was  nothing.  Once  she  found 


21 


The  Slum  Cat 

the  big  Black  Tom  there,  but  discreetly  with- 
drew before  he  saw  her.  The  water-bucket 
was  usually  at  its  place,  or,  failing  that,  there 
were  some  muddy  little  pools  on  the  stone 
below.  But  the  garbage-box  was  very  unre- 
liable. Once  it  left  her  for  three  days  without 
food.  She  searched  along  the  high  fence, 
and  seeing  a small  hole,  crawled  through  that 
and  found  herself  in  the  open  street.  This 
was  a new  world,  but  before  she  had  ventured 
far,  there  was  a noisy,  rumbling  rush— a large 
Dog  came  bounding,  and  Kitty  had  barely  time 
to  run  back  into  the  hole  in  the  fence.  She  was 
dreadfully  hungry,  and  glad  to  find  some  old 
potato-peelings,  which  gave  a little  respite  from 
the  hunger-pang.  In  the  morning  she  did  not 
sleep,  but  prowled  for  food.  Some  Sparrows 
chirruped  in  the  yard.  They  were  often  there, 
but  now  they  were  viewed  with  new  eyes.  The 
steady  pressure  of  hunger  had  roused  the  wild 
hunter  in  the  Kitten  ; those  Sparrows  were  game 
— were  food.  She  crouched  instinctively  and 
stalked  from  cover  to  cover,  but  the  chirpers 
were  alert  and  flew  in  time.  Not  once,  but 
many  times,  she  tried  without  result  except  to 
22 


The  Slum  Cat 


confirm  the  Sparrows  in  the  list  of  things  to  be 
eaten  if  obtainable. 

On  the  fifth  day  of  ill  luck  the  Slum  Kitty 
ventured  forth  into  the  street,  desperately  bent 
on  finding  food.  When  far  from  the  haven 
hole  some  small  boys  opened  fire  at  her  with 
pieces  of  brick.  She  ran  in  fear.  A Dog 
joined  in  the  chase,  and  Kitty’s  position  grew 
perilous  ; but  an  old-fashioned  iron  fence  round 
a house-front  was  there,  and  she  slipped  in  be- 
tween the  rails  as  the  Dog  overtook  her.  A 
woman  in  a window  above  shouted  at  the  Dog. 
Then  the  boys  dropped  a piece  of  cat-meat 
down  to  the  unfortunate ; and  Kitty  had  the 
most  delicious  meal  of  her  life.  The  stoop  af- 
forded a refuge.  Under  this  she  sat  patiently 
till  nightfall  came  with  quiet,  then  sneaked  back 
like  a shadow  to  her  old  iron-yard. 

Thus  the  days  went  by  for  two  months.  She 
grew  in  size  and  strength  and  in  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  immediate  neighborhood. 
She  made  the  acquaintance  of  Downey  Street, 
where  long  rows  of  ash-cans  were  to  be  seen 
every  morning.  She  formed  her  own  ideas  of 
their  proprietors.  The  big  house  was  to  her, 


23 


The  Slum  Cat 


not  a Roman  Catholic  mission,  but  a place 
whose  garbage-tins  abounded  in  choicest  fish 
scrapings.  She  soon  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  meat-man,  and  joined  in  the  shy  fringe 
of  Cats  that  formed  the  outer  circle.  She  also 
met  the  Wharf  Dog  as  well  as  two  or  three  other 
horrors  of  the  same  class.  She  knew  what  to 
expect  of  them  and  how  to  avoid  them ; and  she 
was  happy  in  being  the  inventor  of  a new 
industry.  Many  thousand  Cats  have  doubt- 
less hung,  in  hope,  about  the  tempting  milk-cans 
that  the  early  milk-man  leaves  on  steps  and 
window-ledges,  and  it  was  by  the  merest  acci- 
dent that  Kitty  found  one  with  a broken  lid, 
and  so  was  taught  to  raise  it  and  have  a satisfy- 
ing drink.  Bottles,  of  course,  were  beyond  her, 
but  many  a can  has  a misfit  lid,  and  Kitty  was 
very  painstaking  in  her  efforts  to  discover  the 
loose-jointed  ones.  Finally  she  extended  her 
range  by  exploration  till  she  achieved  the  heart 
of  the  next  block,  and  farther,  till  once  more 
among  the  barrels  and  boxes  of  the  yard  behind 
the  bird-man’s  cellar. 

The  old  iron-yard  never  had  been  home,  she 
had  always  felt  like  a stranger  there ; but  here 


24 


The  Slum  Cat 

she  had  a sense  of  ownership,  and  at  once  re- 
sented the  presence  of  another  small  Cat.  She 
approached  this  newcomer  with  threatening  air. 
The  two  had  got  as  far  as  snarling  and  spitting 
when  a bucket  of  water  from  an  upper  window 
drenched  them  both  and  effectually  cooled 
their  wrath.  They  fled,  the  newcomer  over  the 
wall,  Slum  Kitty  under  the  very  box  where 
she  had  been  born.  This  whole  back  region  ap- 
pealed to  her  strongly,  and  here  again  she  took 
up  her  abode.  The  yard  had  no  more  garbage 
food  than  the  other  and  no  water  at  all,  but  it 
was  frequented  by  stray  Rats  and  a few  Mice  of 
the  finest  quality ; these  were  occasionally  se- 
cured, and  afforded  not  only  a palatable  meal, 
but  were  the  cause  of  her  winning  a friend. 

IV 

Kitty  was  now  fully  grown.  She  was  a strik- 
ing-looking Cat  of  the  tiger  type.  Her  marks 
were  black  on  a very  pale  gray,  and  the  four 
beauty-spots  of  white  on  nose,  ears,  and  tail-tip 
lent  a certain  distinction.  She  was  very  expert 
at  getting  a living,  and  yet  she  had  some  days  of 

25 


The  Slum  Cat 


starvation  and  failed  in  her  ambition  of  catch- 
ing a Sparrow.  She  was  quite  alone,  but  a new 
force  was  coming  into  her  life. 

She  was  lying  in  the  sun  one  August  day, 
when  a large  Black  Cat  came  walking  along  the 
top  of  a wall  in  her  direction.  She  recognized 
him  at  once  by  his  torn  ear.  She  slunk  into 
her  box  and  hid.  He  picked  his  way  gingerly, 
bounded  lightly  to  a shed  that  was  at  the  end 
of  the  yard,  and  was  crossing  the  roof  when  a 
Yellow  Cat  rose  up.  The  Black  Tom  glared 
and  growled,  so  did  the  Yellow  Tom.  Their 
tails  lashed  from  side  to  side.  Strong  throats 
growled  and  yowled.  They  approached  each 
other  with  ears  laid  back,  with  muscles  a-tense. 

“ Yow — yow — ow  ! ” said  the  Black  One. 

“Wow  — w — w ! ” was  the  slightly  deeper 
answer. 

“ Ya-wow — wow — wow!”  said  the  Black 
One,  edging  up  half  an  inch  nearer. 

“ Yow — w — w!”  was  the  Yellow  answer,  as 
the  blond  Cat  rose  to  full  height  and  stepped 
with  vast  dignity  a whole  inch  forward.  “ Yow 
— w!”  and  he  went  another  inch,  while  his  tail 
went  swish,  thump,  from  one  side  to  the  other. 

26 


‘ Yo-ow ! ’ rumbled  the  Yellow  One.” 


The  Slum  Cat 


“ Ya — wow — yow — w!  ” screamed  the  Black 
in  a rising  tone,  and  he  backed  the  eighth  of 
an  inch,  as  he  marked  the  broad,  unshrinking 
breast  before  him. 

Windows  opened  all  around,  human  voices 
were  heard,  but  the  Cat  scene  went  on. 

“ Yow — yow — ow  ! ” rumbled  the  Yellow 
Peril,  his  voice  deepening  as  the  other’s  rose. 
“ Yow!  ” and  he  advanced  another  step. 

Now  their  noses  were  but  three  inches  apart ; 
they  stood  sidewise,  both  ready  to  clinch,  but 
each  waiting  for  the  other.  They  glared  for 
three  minutes  in  silence  and  like  statues,  except 
that  each  tail-tip  was  twisting. 

The  Yellow  began  again.  “Yow — ow  — 
ow!  ” in  deep  tone. 

“Ya — a — a — a — a!”  screamed  the  Black, 
with  intent  to  strike  terror  by  his  yell ; but  he 
retreated  one  sixteenth  of  an  inch.  The  Yellow 
walked  up  a long  half-inch ; their  whiskers 
were  mixing  now ; another  advance,  and  their 
noses  almost  touched. 

“Yo — w — w!”  said  Yellow,  like  a deep 
moan. 

“Y  — a — a — a — a — a — a!”  screamed  the 


29 


The  Slum  Cat 


Black,  but  he  retreated  a thirty-second  of  an 
inch,  and  the  Yellow  Warrior  closed  and 
clinched  like  a demon. 

Oh,  how  they  rolled  and  bit  and  tore,  espe- 
cially the  Yellow  One! 

How  they  pitched  and  gripped  and  hugged, 
but  especially  the  Yellow  One! 

Over  and  over,  sometimes  one  on  top,  some- 
times another,  but  mostly  the  Yellow  One ; and 
farther  till  they  rolled  off  the  roof,  amid  cheers 
from  all  the  windows.  They  lost  not  a second 
in  that  fall  to  the  junk-yard  ; they  tore  and 
clawed  all  the  way  down,  but  especially  the 
Yellow  One.  And  when  they  struck  the  ground, 
still  fighting,  the  one  on  top  was  chiefly  the 
Yellow  One;  and  before  they  separated  both 
had  had  as  much  as  they  wanted,  especially 
the  Black  One!  He  scaled  a wall  and,  bleed- 
ing and  growling,  disappeared,  while  the  news 
was  passed  from  window  to  window  that  Cay- 
ley’s Nig  had  been  licked  at  last  by  Orange 
Billy. 

Either  the  Yellow  Cat  was  a very  clever 
seeker,  or  else  Slum  Kitty  did  not  hide  very 
hard ; but  he  discovered  her  among  the  boxes, 


30 


The  Slum  Cat 

and  she  made  no  attempt  to  get  away,  probably 
because  she  had  witnessed  the  fight.  There  is 
nothing  like  success  in  warfare  to  win  the 
female  heart,  and  thereafter  the  Yellow  Tom 
and  Kitty  became  very  good  friends,  not  shar- 
ing each  other’s  lives  or  food,  — Cats  do  not  do 
that  way  much,— but  recognizing  each  other 
as  entitled  to  special  friendly  privileges. 

V 

September  had  gone.  October’s  shortening 
days  were  on  when  an  event  took  place  in  the 
old  cracker-box.  If  Orange  Billy  had  come 
he  would  have  seen  five  little  Kittens  curled  up 
in  the  embrace  of  their  mother,  the  little  Slum 
Cat.  It  was  a wonderful  thing  for  her.  She 
felt  all  the  elation  an  animal  mother  can  feel, 
all  the  delight,  and  she  loved  them  and  licked 
them  with  a tenderness  that  must  have  been  a 
surprise  to  herself,  had  she  had  the  power  to 
think  of  such  things. 

She  had  added  a joy  to  her  joyless  life,  but 
she  had  also  added  a care  and  a heavy  weight 
to  her  heavy  load.  All  her  strength  was  taken 


31 


The  Slum  Cat 


now  to  find  food.  The  burden  increased  as 
the  offspring  grew  up  big  enough  to  scramble 
about  the  boxes,  which  they  did  daily  during 
her  absence  after  they  were  six  weeks  old. 
That  troubles  go  in  flocks  and  luck  in  streaks, 
is  well  known  in  Slumland.  Kitty  had  had  three 
encounters  with  Dogs,  and  had  been  stoned 
by  Malee’s  negro  during  a two  days’  starve. 
Then  the  tide  turned.  The  very  next  morning 
she  found  a full  milk-can  without  a lid,  suc- 
cessfully robbed  a barrow  pensioner,  and  found 
a big  fish-head,  all  within  two  hours.  She  had 
just  returned  with  that  perfect  peace  which  comes 
only  of  a full  stomach,  when  she  saw  a little 
brown  creature  in  her  junk-yard.  Hunting  mem- 
ories came  back  in  strength ; she  did  n’t  know 
what  it  was,  but  she  had  killed  and  eaten  sev- 
eral Mice,  and  this  was  evidently  a big  Mouse 
with  bob-tail  and  large  ears.  Kitty  stalked  it 
with  elaborate  but  unnecessary  caution ; the 
little  Rabbit  simply  sat  up  and  looked  faintly 
amused.  He  did  not  try  to  run,  and  Kitty 
sprang  on  him  and  bore  him  off.  As  she  was 
not  hungry,  she  carried  him  to  the  cracker- 
box  and  dropped  him  among  the  Kittens.  He 


The  Slum  Cat 


was  not  much  hurt.  He  got  over  his  fright, 
and  since  he  could  not  get  out  of  the  box,  he 
snuggled  among  the  Kittens,  and  when  they  be- 
gan to  take  their  evening  meal  he  very  soon 
decided  to  join  them.  The  old  Cat  was  puzzled. 
The  hunter  instinct  had  been  dominant,  but 
absence  of  hunger  had  saved  the  Rabbit  and 
given  the  maternal  instinct  a chance  to  appear. 
The  result  was  that  the  Rabbit  became  a mem- 
ber of  the  family,  and  was  thenceforth  guarded 
and  fed  with  the  Kittens. 

Two  weeks  went  by.  The  Kittens  romped 
much  among  the  boxes  during  their  mother’s 
absence.  The  Rabbit  could  not  get  out  of  the 
box.  Jap  Malee,  seeing  the  Kittens  about  the 
back  yard,  told  the  negro  to  shoot  them.  This 
he  was  doing  one  morning  with  a 22-calibre 
rifle.  He  had  shot  one  after  another  and  seen 
them  drop  from  sight  into  the  crannies  of  the 
lumber-pile,  when  the  old  Cat  came  running 
along  the  wall  from  the  dock,  carrying  a small 
Wharf  Rat.  He  had  been  ready  to  shoot  her, 
too,  but  the  sight  of  that  Rat  changed  his  plans  : 
a rat-catching  Cat  was  worthy  to  live.  It  hap- 
pened to  be  the  very  first  one  she  had  ever 


33 


The  Slum  Cat 


i 


caught,  but  it  saved  her  life.  She  threaded 
the  lumber-maze  to  the  cracker-box  and  was 
probably  puzzled  to  find  that  there  were  no 
Kittens  to  come  at  her  call,  and  the  Rabbit 
would  not  partake  of  the  Rat.  Pussy  curled  up 
to  nurse  the  Rabbit,  but  she  called  from  time  to 
time  to  summon  the  Kittens.  Guided  by  that 
call,  the  negro  crawled  quietly  to  the  place, 
and  peering  down  into  the  cracker-box,  saw,  to 
his  intense  surprise,  that  it  contained  the  old 
Cat,  a live  Rabbit,  and  a dead  Rat. 

The  mother  Cat  laid  back  her  ears  and 
snarled.  The  negro  withdrew,  but  a minute 
later  a board  was  dropped  on  the  opening  of 
the  cracker-box,  and  the  den  with  its  tenants, 
dead  and  alive,  was  lifted  into  the  bird-cellar. 

“ Say,  boss,  look  a-hyar — hyar  ’s  where  de 
little  Rabbit  got  to  wot  we  lost.  Yo’  sho  t’ought 
Ah  stoled  him  for  de  ’tater-bake.” 

Kitty  and  Bunny  were  carefully  put  in  a 
large  wire  cage  and  exhibited  as  a happy  fam- 
ily till  a few  days  later,  when  the  Rabbit  took 
sick  and  died. 

Pussy  had  never  been  happy  in  the  cage. 
She  had  enough  to  eat  and  drink,  but  she 


34 


The  Slum  Cat 

craved  her  freedom — would  likely  have  gotten 
‘ death  or  liberty  ’ now,  but  that  during  the 
four  days’  captivity  she  had  so  cleaned  and 
slicked  her  fur  that  her  unusual  coloring  was 
seen,  and  Jap  decided  to  keep  her. 


LIFE  II 
VI 

Jap  Malee  was  as  disreputable  a little  Cock- 
ney bantam  as  ever  sold  cheap  Canary-birds  in 
a cellar.  He  was  extremely  poor,  and  the 
negro  lived  with  him  because  the  i Henglish- 
man  ’ was  willing  to  share  bed  and  board,  and 
otherwise  admit  a perfect  equality  that  few 
Americans  conceded.  Jap  was  perfectly  honest 
according  to  his  lights,  but  he  had  n’t  any  lights  j 
and  it  was  well  known  that  his  chief  revenue  was 
derived  from  storing  and  restoring  stolen  Dogs 
and  Cats.  The  half-dozen  Canaries  were  mere 
blinds.  Yet  Jap  believed  in  himself.  “ Hi  tell 
you,  Sammy,  me  boy,  you  ’ll  see  me  with  ’orses  of 
my  own  yet,”  he  would  say,  when  some  trifling 
success  inflated  his  dirty  little  chest.  He  was 

35 


The  Slum  Cat 

not  without  ambition,  in  a weak,  flabby,  once- 
in-a-while  way,  and  he  sometimes  wished  to 
be  known  as  a fancier.  Indeed,  he  had  once 
gone  the  wild  length  of  offering  a Cat  for  ex- 
hibition at  the  Knickerbocker  High  Society 
Cat  and  Pet  Show,  with  three  not  over-clear 
objects:  first,  to  gratify  his  ambition;  second, 
to  secure  the  exhibitor’s  free  pass ; and,  third, 
“ well,  you  kneow,  one  ’as  to  kneow  the  valuable 
Cats,  you  kneow,  when  one  goes  a-catting.” 
But  this  was  a society  show,  the  exhibitor 
had  to  be  introduced,  and  his  miserable  al- 
leged half-Persian  was  scornfully  rejected.  The 
’Lost  and  Found’  columns  of  the  papers  were 
the  only  ones  of  interest  to  Jap,  but  he  had 
noticed  and  saved  a clipping  about  ’breed- 
ing for  fur.’  This  was  stuck  on  the  wall 
of  his  den,  and  under  its  influence  he  set 
about  what  seemed  a cruel  experiment  with  the 
Slum  Cat.  First,  he  soaked  her  dirty  fur  with 
stuff  to  kill  the  two  or  three  kinds  of  creepers 
she  wore ; and,  when  it  had  done  its  work,  he 
washed  her  thoroughly  in  soap  and  warm 
water,  in  spite  of  her  teeth,  claws,  and  yowls. 
Kitty  was  savagely  indignant,  but  a warm  and 
36 


The  Slum  Cat 


happy  glow  spread  over  her  as  she  dried  off  in 
a cage  near  the  stove,  and  her  fur  began  to  fluff 
out  with  wonderful  softness  and  whiteness. 
Jap  and  his  assistant  were  much  pleased  with 
the  result,  and  Kitty  ought  to  have  been.  But 
this  was  preparatory : now  for  the  experiment. 
“ Nothing  is  so  good  for  growing  fur  as  plenty 
of  oily  food  and  continued  exposure  to  cold 
weather,”  said  the  clipping.  Winter  was  at 
hand,  and  Jap  Malee  put  Kitty’s  cage  out  in 
the  yard,  protected  only  from  the  rain  and  the 
direct  wind,  and  fed  her  with  all  the  oil-cake 
and  fish-heads  she  could  eat.  In  a week  a 
change  began  to  show.  She  was  rapidly  getting 
fat  and  sleek — she  had  nothing  to  do  but  get 
fat  and  dress  her  fur.  Her  cage  was  kept 
clean,  and  nature  responded  to  the  chill  weather 
and  the  oily  food  by  making  Kitty’s  coat  thicker 
and  glossier  every  day,  so  that  by  midwinter 
she  was  an  unusually  beautiful  Cat  in  the  fullest 
and  finest  of  fur,  with  markings  that  were  at 
least  a rarity.  Jap  was  much  pleased  with  the 
result  of  the  experiment,  and  as  a very  little 
success  had  a wonderful  effect  on  him,  he 
began  to  dream  of  the  paths  of  glory.  Why 


•*? 

/ C 

" I tv! 
- \ fil 


Cs/ 


if  A M 


37 


The  Slum  Cat 

not  send  the  Slum  Cat  to  the  show  now  coming 
on?  The  failure  of  the  year  before  made  him 
more  careful  as  to  details.  “ ’T  won’t  do,  ye 
kneow,  Sammy,  to  henter  ’er  as  a tramp  Cat,  ye 
kneow,”  he  observed  to  his  help;  “but  it  kin 
be  arranged  to  suit  the  Knickerbockers.  N othink 
like  a good  noime,  ye  kneow.  Ye  see  now  it 
had  orter  be  ‘ Royal  ’ somethink  or  other  — 
nothink  goes  with  the  Knickerbockers  like 
‘Royal’  anythink.  Now  ‘Royal  Dick,’  or 
‘ Royal  Sam,’  ’ow’s  that?  But  ’owld  on ; them’s 
Tom  names.  Oi  say,  Sammy,  wot ’s  the  noime 
of  that  island  where  ye  wuz  born?” 

“ Analostan  Island,  sah,  was  my  native  vicin- 
ity, sah.” 

“ Oi  say,  now,  that ’s  good,  ye  kneow.  ‘ Royal 
Analostan,’  by  Jove  ! The  onliest  pedigreed 
‘ Royal  Analostan  ’ in  the  ’ole  sheow,  ye 
kneow.  Ain’t  that  foine?”  and  they  mingled 
their  cackles. 

“ But  we  ’ll  ’ave  to  ’ave  a pedigree,  ye 
kneow.”  So  a very  long  fake  pedigree  on  the 
recognized  lines  was  prepared.  One  dark  after- 
noon Sam,  in  a borrowed  silk  hat,  delivered  the 
Cat  and  the  pedigree  at  the  show  door.  The 
38 


The  Slum  Cat 

darkey  did  the  honors.  He  had  been  a Sixth 
Avenue  barber,  and  he  could  put  on  more  pomp 
and  lofty  hauteur  in  five  minutes  than  Jap  Ma- 
lee  could  have  displayed  in  a lifetime,  and  this, 
doubtless,  was  one  reason  for  the  respectful 
reception  awarded  the  Royal  Analostan  at  the 
Cat  Show. 

Jap  was  very  proud  to  be  an  exhibitor;  but 
he  had  all  a Cockney’s  reverence  for  the 
upper  class,  and  when  on  the  opening  day  he 
went  to  the  door,  he  was  overpowered  to  see 
the  array  of  carriages  and  silk  hats.  The  gate- 
man  looked  at  him  sharply,  but  passed  him  on 
his  ticket,  doubtless  taking  him  for  stable-boy 
to  some  exhibitor.  The  hall  had  velvet  car- 
pets before  the  long  rows  of  cages.  Jap,  in  his 
small  cunning,  was  sneaking  down  the  side 
rows,  glancing  at  the  Cats  of  all  kinds,  noting 
the  blue  ribbons  and  the  reds,  peering  about 
but  not  daring  to  ask  for  his  own  exhibit,  inly 
trembling  to  think  what  the  gorgeous  gathering 
of  fashion  would  say  if  they  discovered  the 
trick  he  was  playing  on  them.  He  had  passed 
all  around  the  outer  aisles  and  seen  many  prize- 
winners, but  no  sign  of  Slum  Kitty.  The  inner 


39 


The  Slum  Cat 


aisles  were  more  crowded.  He  picked  his  way 
down  them,  but  still  no  Kitty,  and  he  decided 
that  it  was  a mistake ; the  judges  had  rejected 
the  Cat  later.  Never  mind;  he  had  his  exhib- 
itor’s ticket,  and  now  knew  where  several  val- 
uable Persians  and  Angoras  were  to  be  found. 

In  the  middle  of  the  centre  aisle  were  the 
high-class  Cats.  A great  throng  was  there.  The 
passage  was  roped,  and  two  policemen  were  in 
place  to  keep  the  crowd  moving.  Jap  wriggled 
in  among  them ; he  was  too  short  to  see  over, 
and  though  the  richly  gowned  folks  shrunk  from 
his  shabby  old  clothes,  he  could  not  get  near ; 
but  he  gathered  from  the  remarks  that  the  gem 
of  the  show  was  there. 

“ Oh,  is  n’t  she  a beauty  ! ” said  one  tall 
woman. 

“What  distinction!”  was  the  reply. 

“ One  cannot  mistake  the  air  that  comes  only 
from  ages  of  the  most  refined  surroundings.” 

“ How  I should  like  to  own  that  superb 
creature  ! ” 

“ Such  dignity — such  repose  ! ” 

“ She  has  an  authentic  pedigree  nearly  back 
to  the  Pharaohs,  I hear  ” ; and  poor,  dirty  little 


40 


The  Slum  Cat 

Jap  marvelled  at  his  own  cheek  in  sending  his 
Slum  Cat  into  such  company. 

“ Excuse  me,  madame.”  The  director  of  the 
show  now  appeared,  edging  his  way  through 
the  crowd.  “ The  artist  of  the  ‘ Sporting  Ele- 
ment ’ is  here,  under  orders  to  sketch  the  ‘ pearl 
of  the  show  ’ for  immediate  use.  May  I ask 
you  to  stand  a little  aside  ? That ’s  it ; thank 
you.” 

“ Oh,  Mr.  Director,  cannot  you  persuade 
him  to  sell  that  beautiful  creature  ? ” 

“ Hm,  I don’t  know,”  was  the  reply.  “ I 
understand  he  is  a man  of  ample  means  and 
not  at  all  approachable ; but  I ’ll  try,  I ’ll  try, 
madame.  He  was  quite  unwilling  to  exhibit  his 
treasure  at  all,  so  I understand  from  his  butler. 
Here,  you,  keep  out  of  the  way,”  growled  the 
director,  as  the  shabby  little  man  eagerly  pushed 
between  the  artist  and  the  blue-blooded  Cat. 
But  the  disreputable  one  wanted  to  know  where 
valuable  Cats  were  to  be  found.  He  came 
near  enough  to  get  a glimpse  of  the  cage,  and 
there  read  a placard  which  announced  that 
“ The  blue  ribbon  and  gold  medal  of  the 
Knickerbocker  High  Society  Cat  and  Pet 


4i 


The  Slum  Cat 

Show  ” had  been  awarded  to  the  “ thorough- 
bred, pedigreed  Royal  Analostan,  imported  and 
exhibited  by  J.  Malee,  Esq.,  the  well-known 
fancier.  ( N ot  for  sale. ) ” Jap  caught  his  breath 
and  stared  again.  Yes,  surely;  there,  high  in 
a gilded  cage,  on  velvet  cushions,  with  four 
policemen  for  guards,  her  fur  bright  black  and 
pale  gray,  her  bluish  eyes  slightly  closed,  was 
his  Slum  Kitty,  looking  the  picture  of  a Cat 
bored  to  death  with  a lot  of  fuss  that  she  likes 
as  little  as  she  understands  it. 


VII 


Jap  Malee  lingered  around  that  cage,  taking 
in  the  remarks,  for  hours — drinking  a draught 
of  glory  such  as  he  had  never  known  in  life 
before  and  rarely  glimpsed  in  his  dreams.  But 
he  saw  that  it  would  be  wise  for  him  to  remain 
unknown ; his  “ butler  ” must  do  all  the  busi- 
ness. 

It  was  Slum  Kitty  who  made  that  show  a 
success.  Each  day  her  value  went  up  in  her 
owner’s  eyes.  He  did  not  know  what  prices  had 
been  given  for  Cats,  and  thought  that  he  was 


n& 


MALEE,  ? 

'TARA  TA  RA  \ 

/ ~i  \ \ \ l y 


y 


. . . was  his  Slum  Kitty.” 


‘‘There,  . . . high  on  Velvet  Cushions, 


The  Slum  Cat 


touching  a record  pitch  when  his  “ butler  ” 
gave  the  director  authority  to  sell  the  Analostan 
for  one  hundred  dollars. 

This  is  how  it  came  about  that  the  Slum  Cat 
found  herself  transferred  from  the  show  to  a 
Fifth  Avenue  mansion.  She  evinced  a most 
unaccountable  wildness  at  first.  Her  objection 
to  petting,  however,  was  explained  on  the 
ground  of  her  aristocratic  dislike  of  familiar- 
ity. Her  retreat  from  the  Lap-dog  onto  the 
centre  of  the  dinner-table  was  understood  to 
express  a deep-rooted  though  mistaken  idea  of 
avoiding  a defiling  touch.  Her  assaults  on  a 
pet  Canary  were  condoned  for  the  reason  that 
in  her  native  Orient  she  had  been  used  to 
despotic  example.  The  patrician  way  in  which 
she  would  get  the  cover  off  a milk -can  was 
especially  applauded.  Her  dislike  of  her  silk- 
lined  basket,  and  her  frequent  dashes  against 
the  plate-glass  windows,  were  easily  under- 
stood : the  basket  was  too  plain,  and  plate- 
glass  was  not  used  in  her  royal  home.  Her 
spotting  of  the  carpet  evidenced  her  Eastern 
modes  of  thought.  The  failure  of  her  several 
attempts  to  catch  Sparrows  in  the  high-walled 

45 


The  Slum  Cat 


back  yard  was  new  proof  of  the  royal  impo- 
tency  of  her  bringing  up ; while  her  frequent 
wallowings  in  the  garbage-can  were  understood 
to  be  the  manifestation  of  a little  pardonable 
high-born  eccentricity.  She  was  fed  and  pam- 
pered, shown  and  praised ; but  she  was  not 
happy.  Kitty  was  homesick!  She  clawed  at 
that  blue  ribbon  round  her  neck  till  she  got  it 
off ; she  jumped  against  the  plate-glass  because 
that  seemed  the  road  to  outside ; she  avoided 
people  and  Dogs  because  they  had  always 
proved  hostile  and  cruel ; and  she  would  sit 
and  gaze  on  the  roofs  and  back  yards  at  the 
other  side  of  the  window,  wishing  she  could 
be  among  them  for  a change. 

But  she  was  strictly  watched,  was  never  al- 
lowed outside — so  that  all  the  happy  garbage- 
can  moments  occurred  while  these  receptacles 
of  joy  were  indoors.  One  night  in  March, 
however,  as  they  were  set  out  a-row  for  the 
early  scavenger,  the  Royal  Analostan  saw  her 
chance,  slipped  out  of  the  door,  and  was  lost  to 
view. 

Of  course  there  was  a grand  stir ; but  Pussy 
neither  knew  nor  cared  anything  about  that — 
46 


The  Slum  Cat 

her  one  thought  was  to  go  home.  It  may- 
have  been  chance  that  took  her  back  in  the 
direction  of  Gramercy  Grange  Hill,  but  she 
did  arrive  there  after  sundry  small  adventures. 
And  now  what?  She  was  not  at  home,  and  she 
had  cut  off  her  living.  She  was  beginning  to  be 
hungry,  and  yet  she  had  a peculiar  sense  of 
happiness.  She  cowered  in  a front  garden  for 
some  time.  A raw  east  wind  had  been  rising, 
and  now  it  came  to  her  with  a particularly 
friendly  message ; man  would  have  called  it  an 
unpleasant  smell  of  the  docks,  but  to  Pussy  it 
was  welcome  tidings  from  home.  She  trotted 
down  the  long  street  due  east,  threading  the 
rails  of  front  gardens,  stopping  like  a statue  for 
an  instant,  or  crossing  the  street  in  search  of  the 
darkest  side,  and  came  at  length  to  the  docks 
and  to  the  water.  But  the  place  was  strange. 
She  could  go  north  or  south.  Something  turned 
her  southward  ; and,  dodging  among  docks  and 
Dogs,  carts  and  Cats,  crooked  arms  of  the  bay 
and  straight  board  fences,  she  got,  in  an  hour 
or  two,  among  familiar  scenes  and  smells  ; and, 
before  the  sun  came  up,  she  had  crawled  back 
weary  and  foot-sore  through  the  same  old  hole 

47 


(ffllllllflMllli 


The  Slum  Cat 

in  the  same  old  fence  and  over  a wall  to  her 
junk-yard  back  of  the  bird-cellar — yes,  back 
into  the  very  cracker-box  where  she  was  born. 

Oh,  if  the  Fifth  Avenue  family  could  only 
have  seen  her  in  her  native  Orient ! 

After  a long  rest  she  came  quietly  down 
from  the  cracker-box  toward  the  steps  leading 
to  the  cellar,  engaged  in  her  old-time  pursuit 
of  seeking  for  eatables.  The  door  opened,  and 
there  stood  the  negro.  He  shouted  to  the 
bird-man  inside : 

“ Say,  boss,  come  hyar.  Ef  dere  ain’t  dat 
dar  Royal  Ankalostan  am  corned  back  ! ” 

Jap  came  in  time  to  see  the  Cat  jumping  the 
wall.  They  called  loudly  and  in  the  most 
seductive,  wheedling  tones : “ Pussy,  Pussy, 
poor  Pussy  ! Come,  Pussy  ! ” But  Pussy  was 
not  prepossessed  in  their  favor,  and  disappeared 
to  forage  in  her  old-time  haunts. 

The  Royal  Analostan  had  been  a windfall 
for  Jap — had  been  the  means  of  adding  many 
comforts  to  the  cellar  and  several  prisoners  to 
the  cages.  It  was  now  of  the  utmost  impor- 


The  Slum  Cat 


till  Pussy,  urged  by  the  reestablished  hunger- 
pinch,  crept  up  to  a large  fish-head  in  a box- 
trap  ; the  negro,  in  watching,  pulled  the  string 
that  dropped  the  lid,  and,  a minute  later,  the 
Analostan  was  once  more  among  theprisoners  in 
the  cellar.  Meanwhile  Jap  had  been  watching 
the  'Lost  and  Found’  column.  There  it  was, 
“ $25  reward,”  etc.  That  night  Mr.  Malee’s  but- 
ler called  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  mansion  with  the 
missing  cat.  “ Mr.  Malee’s  compliments,  sah. 
De  Royal  Analostan  had  recurred  in  her  recent 
proprietor’s  vicinity  and  residence,  sah.  Mr. 
Malee  had  pleasure  in  recuperating  the  Royal 
Analostan,  sah.”  Of  course  Mr.  Malee  could 
not  be  rewarded,  but  the  butler  was  open  to 
any  offer,  and  plainly  showed  that  he  expected 
the  promised  reward  and  something  more. 

Kitty  was  guarded  very  carefully  after  that  ; 
but  so  far  from  being  disgusted  with  the  old 
life  of  starving,  and  glad  of  her  ease,  she  became 
wilder  and  more  dissatisfied. 


49 


The  Slum  Cat 


VIII 


The  spring  was  doing  its  New  York  best.  The 
dirty  little  English  Sparrows  were  tumbling  over 
each  other  in  their  gutter  brawls,  Cats  yowled  all 
night  in  the  areas,  and  the  Fifth  Avenue  fam- 
ily were  thinking  of  their  country  residence. 
They  packed  up,  closed  house,  and  moved  off 
to  their  summer  home,  some  fifty  miles  away, 
and  Pussy,  in  a basket,  went  with  them. 

“Just  what  she  needed:  a change  of  air 
and  scene  to  wean  her  away  from  her  former 
owners  and  make  her  happy.” 

The  basket  was  lifted  into  a Rumble-shaker. 
New  sounds  and  passing  smells  were  entered 
and  left.  A turn  in  the  course  was  made. 
Then  a roaring  of  many  feet,  more  swinging  of 
the  basket ; a short  pause,  another  change  of 
direction,  then  some  clicks,  some  bangs,  a long 
shrill  whistle,  and  door-bells  of  a very  big  front 
door;  a rumbling,  a whizzing,  an  unpleasant 
smell,  a hideous  smell,  a growing  horrible,  hate- 
ful choking  smell,  a deadly,  griping,  poison- 
ous stench,  with  roaring  that  drowned  poor 


5° 


The  Slum  Cat 


Kitty’s  yowls,  and  just  as  it  neared  the  point 
where  endurance  ceased,  there  was  relief.  She 
heard  clicks  and  clacks.  There  was  light ; 
there  was  air.  Then  a man’s  voice  called, 
“ All  out  for  125th  Street,”  though  of  course  to 
Kitty  it  was  a mere  human  bellow.  The 
roaring  almost  ceased — did  cease.  Later  the 
rackety-bang  was  renewed  with  plenty  of 
sounds  and  shakes,  though  not  the  poison- 
ous gas ; a long,  hollow,  booming  roar  with  a 
pleasant  dock  smell  was  quickly  passed,  and 
then  there  was  a succession  of  jolts,  roars,  jars, 
stops,  clicks,  clacks,  smells,  jumps,  shakes,  more 
smells,  more  shakes, — big  shakes,  little  shakes, 
— gases,  smokes,  screeches,  door-bells,  trem- 
blings, roars,  thunders,  and  some  new  smells, 
raps,  taps,  heavings,  rumblings,  and  more  smells, 
but  all  without  any  of  the  feel  that  the  direc- 
tion is  changed.  When  at  last  it  stopped, 
the  sun  came  twinkling  through  the  basket-lid. 
The  Royal  Cat  was  lifted  into  a Rumble-shaker 
of  the  old  familiar  style,  and,  swerving  aside  from 
their  past  course,  very  soon  the  noises  of  its 
wheels  were  grittings  and  rattlings  ; a new 
and  horrible  sound  was  added — the  barking  of 


5i 


The  Slum  Cat 

Dogs,  big  and  little  and  dreadfully  close.  The 
basket  was  lifted,  and  Slum  Kitty  had  reached 
her  country  home. 

Every  one  was  officiously  kind.  They  wanted 
to  please  the  Royal  Cat,  but  somehow  none  of 
them  did,  except,  possibly,  the  big,  fat  cook 
that  Kitty  discovered  on  wandering  into  the 
kitchen.  This  unctuous  person  smelt  more  like 
a slum  than  anything  she  had  met  for  months, 
and  the  Royal  Analostan  was  proportionately 
attracted.  The  cook,  when  she  learned  that  fears 
were  entertained  about  the  Cat  staying,  said : 
“ Shure,  she ’d  ’tind  to  thot ; wanst  a Cat  licks 
her  futs,  shure  she ’s  at  home.”  So  she  deftly 
caught  the  unapproachable  royalty  in  her  apron, 
and  committed  the  horrible  sacrilege  of  greasing 
the  soles  of  her  feet  with  pot-grease.  Of 
course  Kitty  resented  it — she  resented  every- 
thing in  the  place ; but  on  being  set  down  she 
began  to  dress  her  paws  and  found  evident  sat- 
isfaction in  that  grease.  She  licked  all  four 
feet  for  an  hour,  and  the  cook  triumphantly 
announced  that  now  “shure  she ’d  be  apt  to 
shtay.”  And  stay  she  did,  but  she  showed 
a most  surprising  and  disgusting  preference 


52 


The  Slum  Cat 

for  the  kitchen,  the  cook,  and  the  garbage- 
pail. 

The  family,  though  distressed  by  these  distin- 
guished peculiarities,  were  glad  to  see  the  Royal 
Analostan  more  contented  and  approachable. 
They  gave  her  more  liberty  after  a week  or 
two.  They  guarded  her  from  every  menace. 
The  Dogs  were  taught  to  respect  her.  No 
man  or  boy  about  the  place  would  have 
dreamed  of  throwing  a stone  at  the  famous 
pedigreed  Cat.  She  had  all  the  food  she 
wanted,  but  still  she  was  not  happy.  She  was 
hankering  for  many  things,  she  scarcely  knew 
what.  She  had  everything — yes,  but  she  wanted 
something  else.  Plenty  to  eat  and  drink — yes, 
but  milk  does  not  taste  the  same  when  you 
can  go  and  drink  all  you  want  from  a saucer ; 
it  has  to  be  stolen  out  of  a tin  pail  when  you 
are  belly-pinched  with  hunger  and  thirst,  or  it 
does  not  have  the  tang — it  is  n’t  milk. 

Yes,  there  was  a junk-yard  back  of  the 
house  and  beside  it  and  around  it  too,  a big 
one,  but  it  was  everywhere  poisoned  and  pol- 
luted with  roses.  The  very  Horses  and  Dogs 
had  the  wrong  smells ; the  whole  country  round 


53 


The  Slum  Cat 


was  a repellent  desert  of  lifeless,  disgusting  gar- 
dens and  hay-fields,  without  a single  tenement 
or  smoke-stack  in  sight.  How  she  did  hate  it  all ! 
There  was  only  one  sweet-smelling  shrub  in  the 
whole  horrible  place,  and  that  was  in  a neglected 
corner.  She  did  enjoy  nipping  that  and  rolling 
in  the  leaves ; it  was  a bright  spot  in  the  grounds ; 
but  the  only  one,  for  she  had  not  found  a rot- 
ten fish-head  nor  seen  a genuine  garbage-can 
since  she  came,  and  altogether  it  was  the  most 
unlovely,  unattractive,  unsmellable  spot  she  had 
ever  known.  She  would  surely  have  gone  that 
first  night  had  she  had  the  liberty.  The  liberty 
was  weeks  in  coming,  and,  meanwhile,  her  affin- 
ity with  the  cook  had  developed  as  a bond  to 
keep  her ; but  one  day  after  a summer  of  dis- 
content a succession  of  things  happened  to  stir 
anew  the  slum  instinct  of  the  royal  prisoner. 

A great  bundle  of  stuff  from  the  docks  had 
reached  the  country  mansion.  What  it  con- 
tained was  of  little  moment,  but  it  was  rich 
with  a score  of  the  most  piquant  and  winsome 
of  dock  and  slum  smells.  The  chords  of 
memory  surely  dwell  in  the  nose,  and  Pussy’s 
past  was  conjured  up  with  dangerous  force. 


54 


The  Slum  Cat 


Next  day  the  cook  ‘ left  ’ through  some  trouble 
over  this  very  bundle.  It  waS  the  cutting  of 
cables,  and  that  evening  the  youngest  boy  of 
the  house,  a horrid  little  American  with  no 
proper  appreciation  of  royalty,  was  tying  a tin 
to  the  blue-blooded  one’s  tail,  doubtless  in  fur- 
therance of  some  altruistic  project,  when  Pussy 
resented  the  liberty  with  a paw  that  wore  five 
big  fish-hooks  for  the  occasion.  The  howl  of 
downtrodden  America  roused  America’s  mo- 
ther. The  deft  and  womanly  blow  that  she 
aimed  with  her  book  was  miraculously  avoided, 
and  Pussy  took  flight,  up-stairs,  of  course.  A 
hunted  Rat  runs  down-stairs,  a hunted  Dog 
goes  on  the  level,  a hunted  Cat  runs  up.  She 
hid  in  the  garret,  baffled  discovery,  and  waited 
till  night  came.  Then,  gliding  down-stairs,  she 
tried  each  screen-door  in  turn,  till  she  found  one 
unlatched,  and  escaped  into  the  black  August 
night.  Pitch-black  to  man’s  eyes,  it  was  sim- 
ply gray  to  her,  and  she  glided  through  the  dis- 
gusting shrubbery  and  flower-beds,  took  a final 
nip  at  that  one  little  bush  that  had  been  an  at- 
tractive spot  in  the  garden,  and  boldly  took  her 
back  track  of  the  spring. 


The  Slum  Cat 


How  could  she  take  a back  track  that  she 
never  saw?  There  is  in  all  animals  some  sense 
of  direction.  It  is  very  low  in  man  and  very 
high  in  Horses,  but  Cats  have  a large  gift,  and 
this  mysterious  guide  took  her  westward,  not 
clearly  and  definitely,  but  with  a general  im- 
pulse that  was  made  definite  simply  because 
the  road  was  easy  to  travel.  In  an  hour  she 
had  covered  two  miles  and  reached  the  Hudson 
River.  Her  nose  had  told  her  many  times 
that  the  course  was  true.  Smell  after  smell 
came  back,  just  as  a man  after  walking  a mile 
in  a strange  street  may  not  recall  a single  fea- 
ture, but  will  remember,  on  seeing  it  again, 
“ Why,  yes,  I saw  that  before.”  So  Kitty’s  main 
guide  was  the  sense  of  direction,  but  it  was  her 
nose  that  kept  reassuring  her,  “ Yes,  now  you 
are  right— we  passed  this  place  last  spring.” 

At  the  river  was  the  railroad.  She  could 
not  go  on  the  water;  she  must  go  north  or 
south.  This  was  a case  where  her  sense  of 
direction  was  clear;  it  said,  “Go  south,”  and 
Kitty  trotted  down  the  foot-path  between  the 
iron  rails  and  the  fence. 


56 


The  Slum  Cat 


LIFE  III 
IX 


Cats  can  go  very  fast  up  a tree  or  over  a wall, 
but  when  it  comes  to  the  long  steady  trot  that 
reels  off  mile  after  mile,  hour  after  hour,  it  is 
not  the  cat-hop,  but  the  dog-trot,  that  counts. 
Although  the  travelling  was  good  and  the  path 
direct,  an  hour  had  gone  before  two  more 
miles  were  put  between  her  and  the  Hades  of 
roses.  She  was  tired  and  a little  foot-sore. 
She  was  thinking  of  rest  when  a Dog  came  run- 
ning to  the  fence  near  by,  and  broke  out  into 
such  a horrible  barking  close  to  her  ear  that 
Pussy  leaped  in  terror.  She  ran  as  hard  as  she 
could  down  the  path,  at  the  same  time  watch- 
ing to  see  if  the  Dog  should  succeed  in  passing 
the  fence.  No,  not  yet!  but  he  ran  close  by 
it,  growling  horribly,  while  Pussy  skipped  along 
on  the  safe  side.  The  barking  of  the  Dog 
grew  into  a low  rumble — a louder  rumble  and 
roaring — a terrifying  thunder.  A light  shone. 
Kitty  glanced  back  to  see,  not  the  Dog,  but  a 

57 


The  Slum  Cat 

huge  Black  Thing  with  a blazing  red  eye  com- 
ing on,  yowling  and  spitting  like  a yard  full  of 
Cats.  She  put  forth  all  her  powers  to  run, 
made  such  time  as  she  had  never  made  before, 
but  dared  not  leap  the  fence.  She  was  running 
like  a Dog,  was  flying,  but  all  in  vain ; the  mon- 
strous pursuer  overtook  her,  but  missed  her  in 
the  darkness,  and  hurried  past  to  be  lost  in  the 
night,  while  Kitty  crouched  gasping  for  breath, 
half  a mile  nearer  home  since  that  Dog  began 
to  bark. 

This  was  her  first  encounter  with  the  strange 
monster,  strange  to  her  eyes  only;  her  nose 
seemed  to  know  him  and  told  her  this  was  an- 
other landmark  on  the  home  trail.  But  Pussy 
lost  much  of  her  fear  of  his  kind.  She  learned 
that  they  were  very  stupid  and  could  not  find  her 
if  she  slipped  quietly  under  a fence  and  lay 
still.  Before  morning  she  had  encountered  sev- 
eral of  them,  but  escaped  unharmed  from  all. 

About  sunrise  she  reached  a nice  little  slum 
on  her  home  trail,  and  was  lucky  enough  to 
find  several  unsterilized  eatables  in  an  ash-heap. 
She  spent  the  day  around  a stable  where  were 
two  Dogs  and  a number  of  small  boys,  that 
58 


The  Slum  Cat 


between  them  came  near  ending  her  career.  It 
was  so  very  like  home ; but  she  had  no  idea 
of  staying  there.  She  was  driven  by  the  old 
craving,  and  next  evening  set  out  as  before. 
She  had  seen  the  one-eyed  Thunder-rollers  all 
day  going  by,  and  was  getting  used  to  them, 
so  travelled  steadily  all  that  night.  The  next 
day  was  spent  in  a barn  where  she  caught  a 
Mouse,  and  the  next  night  was  like  the  last, 
except  that  a Dog  she  encountered  drove 
her  backward  on  her  trail  for  a long  way. 
Several  times  she  was  misled  by  angling  roads, 
and  wandered  far  astray,  but  in  time  she  wan- 
dered back  again  to  her  general  southward 
course.  The  days  were  passed  in  skulking 
under  barns  and  hiding  from  Dogs  and  small 
boys,  and  the  nights  in  limping  along  the  track, 
for  she  was  getting  foot-sore  ; but  on  she  went, 
mile  after  mile,  southward,  ever  southward— 
Dogs,  boys,  Roarers,  hunger— Dogs,  boys, 
Roarers,  hunger — yet  on  and  onward  still  she 
went,  and  her  nose  from  time  to  time  cheered 
her  by  confidently  reporting,  “ There  surely  is 
a smell  we  passed  last  spring.” 


59 


The  Slum  Cat 


x 


So  a week  went  by,  and  Pussy,  dirty,  ribbon- 
less, foot-sore,  and  weary,  arrived  at  the  Harlem 
Bridge.  Though  it  was  enveloped  in  delicious 
smells,  she  did  not  like  the  look  of  that  bridge. 
For  half  the  night  she  wandered  up  and 
down  the  shore  without  discovering  any  other 
means  of  going  south,  excepting  some  other 
bridges,  or  anything  of  interest  except  that  here 
the  men  were  as  dangerous  as  the  boys. 
Somehow  she  had  to  come  back  to  it ; not 
only  its  smells  were  familiar,  but  from  time  to 
time,  when  a One-eye  ran  over  it,  there  was 
that  peculiar  rumbling  roar  that  was  a sensa- 
tion in  the  springtime  trip.  The  calm  of  the 
late  night  was  abroad  when  she  leaped  to  the 
timber  stringer  and  glided  out  over  the  water. 
She  had  got  less  than  a third  of  the  way  across 
when  a thundering  One-eye  came  roaring  at  her 
from  the  opposite  end.  She  was  much  fright- 
ened, but  knowing  their  stupidity  and  blind- 
ness, she  dropped  to  a low  side  beam  and  there 
crouched  in  hiding.  Of  course  the  stupid  Mon- 
60 


The  Slum  Cat 


ster  missed  her  and  passed  on,  and  all  would 
have  been  well,  but  it  turned  back,  or  another 
just  like  it  came  suddenly  spitting  behind  her. 
Pussy  leaped  to  the  long  track  and  made  for 
the  home  shore.  She  might  have  got  there  had 
not  a third  of  the  Red-eyed  Terrors  come 
screeching  at  her  from  that  side.  She  was  run- 
ning her  hardest,  but  was  caught  between  two 
foes.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  a desperate 
leap  from  the  timbers  into — she  did  n’t  know 
what.  Down,  down,  down — plop, splash, plunge 
into  the  deep  water,  not  cold,  for  it  was  August, 
but  oh,  so  horrible ! She  spluttered  and  coughed 
when  she  came  to  the  top,  glanced  around  to  see 
if  the  Monsters  were  swimming  after  her,  and 
struck  out  for  shore.  She  had  never  learned  to 
swim,  and  yet  she  swam,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  a Cat’s  position  and  actions  in  swimming 
are  the  same  as  her  position  and  actions  in 
walking.  She  had  fallen  into  a place  she  did 
not  like ; naturally  she  tried  to  walk  out,  and 
the  result  was  that  she  swam  ashore.  Which 
shore  ? The  home-love  never  fails : the  south 
side  was  the  only  shore  for  her,  the  one  near- 
est home.  She  scrambled  out  all  dripping 
61 


> 


The  Slum  Cat 

wet,  up  the  muddy  bank  and  through  coal-piles 
and  dust-heaps,  looking  as  black,  dirty,  and  un- 
royal as  it  was  possible  for  a Cat  to  look. 

Once  the  shock  was  over,  the  Royal-pedi- 
greed Slummer  began  to  feel  better  for  the 
plunge.  A genial  glow  without  from  the  bath, 
a genial  sense  of  triumph  within,  for  had  she 
not  outwitted  three  of  the  big  Terrors? 

Her  nose,  her  memory,  and  her  instinct  of 
direction  inclined  her  to  get  on  the  track  again  ; 
but  the  place  was  infested  with  those  Thunder- 
rollers,  and  prudence  led  her  to  turn  aside  and 
follow  the  river-bank  with  its  musky  home- 
reminders  ; and  thus  she  was  spared  the  un- 
speakable horrors  of  the  tunnel. 

She  was  over  three  days  learning  the  manifold 
dangers  and  complexities  of  the  East  River 
docks.  Once  she  got  by  mistake  on  a ferry- 
boat and  was  carried  over  to  Long  Island ; but 
she  took  an  early  boat  back.  At  length  on  the 
third  night  she  reached  familiar  ground,  the  place 
she  had  passed  the  night  of  her  first  escape. 
From  that  her  course  was  sure  and  rapid.  She 


The  Slum  Cat 


features  in  the  Dog-scape  now.  She  went 
faster,  felt  happier.  In  a little  while  surely  she 
would  be  curled  up  in  her  native  Orient  —the 
old  junk-yard.  Another  turn,  and  the  block 
was  in  sight. 

But — what!  It  was  gone!  Kitty  couldn’t 
believe  her  eyes ; but  she  must,  for  the  sun  was 
not  yet  up.  There  where  once  had  stood  or 
leaned  or  slouched  or  straggled  the  houses  of 
the  block,  was  a great  broken  wilderness  of 
stone,  lumber,  and  holes  in  the  ground. 

Kitty  walked  all  around  it.  She  knew  by  the 
bearings  and  by  the  local  color  of  the  pavement 
that  she  was  in  her  home,  that  there  had  lived 
the  bird-man,  and  there  was  the  old  junk-yard ; 
but  all  were  gone,  completely  gone,  taking  their 
familiar  odors  with  them,  and  Pussy  turned 
sick  at  heart  in  the  utter  hopelessness  of 
the  case.  Her  place-love  was  her  master-mood. 
She  had  given  up  all  to  come  to  a home  that 
no  longer  existed,  and  for  once  her  sturdy  little 
heart  was  cast  down.  She  wandered  over  the 
silent  heaps  of  rubbish  and  found  neither  con- 
solation nor  eatables.  The  ruin  had  taken  in 
several  of  the  blocks  and  reached  back  from 

63 


The  Slum  Cat 

the  water.  It  was  not  a fire ; Kitty  had  seen 
one  of  those  things.  This  looked  more  like 
the  work  of  a flock  of  the  Red-eyed  Monsters. 
Pussy  knew  nothing  of  the  great  bridge  that 
was  to  rise  from  this  very  spot. 

When  the  sun  came  up  she  sought  for 
cover.  An  adjoining  block  still  stood  with 
little  change,  and  the  Royal  Analostan  retired 
to  that.  She  knew  some  of  its  trails ; but  once 
there,  was  unpleasantly  surprised  to  find  the 
place  swarming  with  Cats  that,  like  herself, 
were  driven  from  their  old  grounds,  and  when 
the  garbage-cans  came  out  there  were  several 
Slummers  at  each.  It  meant  a famine  in  the 
land,  and  Pussy,  after  standing  it  a few  days, 
was  reduced  to  seeking  her  other  home  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  She  got  there  to  find  it  shut  up  and 
deserted.  She  waited  about  for  a day ; had  an 
unpleasant  experience  with  a big  man  in  a 
blue  coat,  and  next  night  returned  to  the 
crowded  slum. 

September  and  October  wore  away.  Many 
of  the  Cats  died  of  starvation  or  were  too  weak 
to  escape  their  natural  enemies.  But  Kitty, 
young  and  strong,  still  lived. 

64 


The  Slum  Cat 


Great  changes  had  come  over  the  ruined 
blocks.  Though  silent  on  the  night  when  she 
first  saw  them,  they  were  crowded  with  noisy 
workmen  all  day.  A tall  building,  well  ad- 
vanced on  her  arrival,  was  completed  at  the 
end  of  October,  and  Slum  Kitty,  driven  by 
hunger,  went  sneaking  up  to  a pail  that  a negro 
had  set  outside.  The  pail,  unfortunately,  was 
not  for  garbage ; it  was  a new  thing  in  that  re- 
gion : a scrubbing-pail.  A sad  disappointment, 
but  it  had  a sense  of  comfort — there  were  traces 
of  a familiar  touch  on  the  handle.  While  she 
was  studying  it,  the  negro  elevator-boy  came 
out  again.  In  spite  of  his  blue  clothes,  his 
odorous  person  confirmed  the  good  impres- 
sion of  the  handle.  Kitty  had  retreated  across 
the  street.  He  gazed  at  her. 

“ Sho  ef  dat  don’t  look  like  de  Royal  Anka- 
lostan  ! Hyar,  Pussy,  Pussy,  Pu-s-s-s-s-y ! 
Co-o-o-o-m-e,  Pu-u-s-s-sy,  hyar!  I ’spec’s 
she ’s  sho  hungry.” 

Hungry!  She  had  n’t  had  a real  meal  for 
months.  The  negro  went  into  the  building 
and  reappeared  with  a portion  of  his  own 

lunch. 


The  Slum  Cat 


“ Hyar,  Pussy,  Puss,  Puss,  Puss!  ” It  seemed 
very  good,  but  Pussy  had  her  doubts  of  the 
man.  At  length  he  laid  the  meat  on  the  pave- 
ment, and  went  back  to  the  door.  Slum  Kitty 
came  forward  very  warily ; sniffed  at  the  meat, 
seized  it,  and  fled  like  a little  Tigress  to  eat  her 
prize  in  peace. 

LIFE  IV 
XI 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a new  era.  Pussy 
came  to  the  door  of  the  building  now  when- 
ever pinched  by  hunger,  and  the  good  feeling 
for  the  negro  grew.  She  had  never  under- 
stood that  man  before.  He  had  always  seemed 
hostile.  Now  he  was  her  friend,  the  only  one 
she  had. 

One  week  she  had  a streak  of  luck.  Seven 
good  meals  on  seven  successive  days ; and  right 
on  the  top  of  the  last  meal  she  found  a juicy 
dead  Rat,  the  genuine  thing,  a perfect  windfall. 
She  had  never  killed  a full-grown  Rat  in  all  her 
lives,  but  seized  the  prize  and  ran  off  to  hide 
it  for  future  use.  She  was  crossing  the  street 
66 


The  Slum  Cat 


in  front  of  the  new  building  when  an  old  enemy 
appeared, — the  Wharf  Dog, — and  Kittyretreat- 
ed,  naturally  enough,  to  the  door  where  she 
had  a friend.  Just  as  she  neared  it,  he  opened 
the  door  for  a well-dressed  man  to  come  out, 
and  both  saw  the  Cat  with  her  prize. 

“ Hello!  Look  at  that  for  a Cat!  ” 

“ Yes,  sail,”  answered  the  negro.  “ Dat  ’s 
ma  Cat,  sah ; she  ’s  a terror  on  Rats,  sah ! hez 
’em  about  cleaned  up,  sah ; dat ’s  why  she  ’s 
so  thin.” 

“Well,  don’t  let  her  starve,”  said  the  man 
with  the  air  of  the  landlord.  “ Can’t  yo 


“ De  liver  meat-man  comes  reg’lar, 
quatah  dollar  a week,  sah,”  said  the 
fully  realizing  that  he  was  entitled  to  th< 
fifteen  cents  for  “ the  idea.” 


her  ? ” 


“ That ’s  all  right.  I ’ll  stand  it.” 


XII 


“ M-e-a-t ! M-e-a-t ! ” is  heard  the  magnetic, 
cat-conjuring  cry  of  the  old  liver-man,  as  his 
barrow  is  pushed  up  the  glorified  Scrimper’s 


67 


1\ 


x: 'a;' 

'i.ww'i 

''Sr 

A 


The  Slum  Cat 

Alley,  and  Cats  come  crowding,  as  of  yore,  to 
receive  their  due. 

There  are  Cats  black,  white,  yellow,  and  gray 
to  be  remembered,  and,  above  all,  there  are 
owners  to  be  remembered.  As  the  barrow 
rounds  the  corner  near  the  new  building  it 
makes  a newly  scheduled  stop. 

“ Hyar,  you,  get  out  o’  the  road,  you  common 
trash,”  cries  the  liver-man,  and  he  waves  his 
wand  to  make  way  for  the  little  gray  Cat  with 
blue  eyes  and  white  nose.  She  receives  an 
unusually  large  portion,  for  Sam  is  wisely 
dividing  the  returns  evenly ; and  Slum  Kitty 
retreats  with  her  ‘ daily  ’ into  shelter  of  the 
great  building,  to  which  she  is  regularly  at- 
tached. She  has  entered  into  her  fourth  life 
with  prospects  of  happiness  never  before 
dreamed  of.  Everything  was  against  her  at 
first ; now  everything  seems  to  be  coming  her 
way.  It  is  very  doubtful  that  her  mind  was 
broadened  by  travel,  but  she  knew  what  she 
wanted  and  she  got  it.  She  has  achieved  her 
long-time  great  ambition  by  catching,  not  a 
Sparrow,  but  two  of  them,  while  they  were 
clinched  in  mortal  combat  in  the  gutter. 

68 


The  Slum  Cat 


There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  she  ever 
caught  another  Rat;  but  the  negro  secures 
a dead  one  when  he  can,  for  purposes  of  exhi- 
bition, lest  her  pension  be  imperilled.  The  dead 
one  is  left  in  the  hall  till  the  proprietor  comes ; 
then  it  is  apologetically  swept  away.  “ Well, 
drat  dat  Cat,  sah  ; dat  Royal  Ankalostan  blood, 
sah,  is  terrors  on  Rats.” 

She  has  had  several  broods  since.  The  ne- 
gro thinks  the  Yellow  Tom  is  the  father  of  some 
of  them,  and  no  doubt  the  negro  is  right. 

He  has  sold  her  a number  of  times  with  a 
perfectly  clear  conscience,  knowing  quite  well 
that  it  is  only  a question  of  a few  days  before 
the  Royal  Analostan  comes  back  again.  Doubt- 
less he  is  saving  the  money  for  some  honorable 
ambition.  She  has  learned  to  tolerate  the  ele- 
vator, and  even  to  ride  up  and  down  on  it. 
The  negro  stoutly  maintains  that  once,  when 
she  heard  the  meat-man,  while  she  was  on  the 
top  floor,  she  managed  to  press  the  button  that 
called  the  elevator  to  take  her  down. 

She  is  sleek  and  beautiful  again.  She  is  not 
only  one  of  the  four  hundred  that  form  the 
inner  circle  about  the  liver-barrow,  but  she  is 
69 


The  Slum  Cat 


recognized  as  the  star  pensioner  among  them. 
The  liver-man  is  positively  respectful.  Not 
even  the  cream-and-chicken  fed  Cat  of  the 
pawn-broker’s  wife  has  such  a position  as  the 
Royal  Analostan.  But  in  spite  of  her  prosperity, 
her  social  position,  her  royal  name  and  fake 
pedigree,  the  greatest  pleasure  of  her  life  is  to 
slip  out  and  go  a-slumming  in  the  gloaming,  for 
now,  as  in  her  previous  lives,  she  is  at  heart,  and 
likely  to  be,  nothing  but  a dirty  little  Slum  Cat. 


70 


Arnaux 

The  Chronicle  of  a Homing  Pigeon 


I 

E passed  through  the  side 
door  of  a big  stable  on 
West  Nineteenth  Street. 
The  mild  smell  of  the  well- 
kept  stalls  was  lost  in  the 
sweet  odor  of  hay,  as  we 
mounted  a ladder  and  entered  the  long  gar- 
ret. The  south  end  was  walled  off,  and  the 
familiar  “ Coo-oo,  cooooo-oo,  ruk-at-a-coo,” 
varied  with  the  “ whirr,  whirr,  whirr  ” of 
wings,  informed  us  that  we  were  at  the  pigeon- 
loft. 

This  was  the  home  of  a famous  lot  of  birds, 
and  to-day  there  was  to  be  a race  among  fifty 


73 


Arnaux 


of  the  youngsters.  The  owner  of  the  loft  had 
asked  me,  as  an  unprejudiced  outsider,  to  be 
judge  in  the  contest. 

It  was  a training  race  of  the  young  birds. 
They  had  been  taken  out  for  short  distances 
with  their  parents  once  or  twice,  then  set  free 
to  return  to  the  loft.  Now  for  the  first  time 
they  were  to  be  flown  without  the  old  ones. 
The  point  of  start,  Elizabeth,  N.  J.,  was  a long 
journey  for  their  first  unaided  attempt.  “ But 
then,”  the  trainer  remarked,  “that ’s  how  we 
weed  out  the  fools ; only  the  best  birds  make 
it,  and  that  ’s  all  we  want  back.” 

There  was  another  side  to  the  flight.  It  was 
to  be  a race  among  those  that  did  return. 
Each  of  the  men  about  the  loft  as  well  as  sev- 
eral neighboring  fanciers  were  interested  in  one 
or  other  of  the  Homers.  They  made  up  a 
purse  for  the  winner,  and  on  me  was  to  devolve 
the  important  duty  of  deciding  which  should 
take  the  stakes.  Not  the  first  bird  back , but  the 
first  bird  into  the  loft , was  to  win,  for  one  that 
returns  to  his  neighborhood  merely,  without 
immediately  reporting  at  home,  is  of  little  use 
as  a letter-carrier. 


74 


Arnaux 


The  Homing  Pigeon  used  to  be  called  the 
Carrier  because  it  carried  messages,  but  here 
I found  that  name  restricted  to  the  show 
bird,  the  creature  with  absurdly  developed 
wattles ; the  one  that  carries  the  messages  is 
now  called  the  Homer,  or  Homing  Pigeon — 
the  bird  that  always  comes  home.  These  Pig- 
eons are  not  of  any  special  color,  nor  have  they 
any  of  the  fancy  adornments  of  the  kind  that 
figure  in  Bird  shows.  They  are  not  bred  for 
style,  but  for  speed  and  for  their  mental  gifts. 
They  must  be  true  to  their  home,  able  to  re- 
turn to  it  without  fail.  The  sense  of  direction 
is  now  believed  to  be  located  in  the  bony  laby- 
rinth of  the  ear.  There  is  no  creature  with 
finer  sense  of  locality  and  direction  than  a good 
Homer,  and  the  only  visible  proofs  of  it  are 
the  great  bulge  on  each  side  of  the  head  over 
the  ears,  and  the  superb  wings  that  complete 
his  equipment  to  obey  the  noble  impulse  of 
home-love.  Now  the  mental  and  physical 
equipments  of  the  last  lot  of  young  birds  were 
to  be  put  to  test. 

Although  there  were  plenty  of  witnesses,  I 
thought  it  best  to  close  all  but  one  of  the  pig- 


75 


Arnaux 

eon-doors  and  stand  ready  to  shut  that  behind 
the  first  arrival. 

I shall  never  forget  the  sensations  of  that 
day.  I had  been  warned  : “ They  start  at  1 2 ; 
they  should  be  here  at  12:30;  but  look  out, 
they  come  like  a whirlwind.  You  hardly  see 
them  till  they  ’re  in.” 

We  were  ranged  along  the  inside  of  the  loft, 
each  with  an  eye  to  a crack  or  a partly  closed 
pigeon-door,  anxiously  scanning  the  southwest- 
ern horizon,  when  one  shouted : “ Look  out — 
here  they  come ! ” Like  a white  cloud  they 
burst  into  view,  low  skimming  over  the  city 
roofs,  around  a great  chimney  pile,  and  in  two 
seconds  after  first  being  seen  they  were  back. 
The  flash  of  white,  the  rush  of  pinions,  were  all 
so  sudden,  so  short,  that,  though  preparing,  I 
was  unprepared.  I was  at  the  only  open  door. 
A whistling  arrow  of  blue  shot  in,  lashed  my 
face  with  its  pinions,  and  passed.  I had  hardly 
time  to  drop  the  little  door,  as  a yell  burst 
from  the  men,  “ Arnaux  ! Arnaux  ! I told  you 
he  would.  Oh,  he ’s  a darling;  only  three 
months  old  and  a winner — he ’s  a little  dar- 
ling!” and  Arnaux’s  owner  danced,  more 
76 


Arnaux 


for  joy  in  his  bird  than  in  the  purse  he  had 
won. 

The  men  sat  or  kneeled  and  watched  him  in 
positive  reverence  as  he  gulped  a quantity  of 
water,  then  turned  to  the  food-trough. 

“ Look  at  that  eye,  those  wings,  and  did  you 
ever  see  such  a breast  ? Oh,  but  he ’s  the  real 
grit!”  so  his  owner  prattled  to  the  silent  ones 
whose  birds  had  been  defeated. 

That  was  the  first  of  Arnaux’s  exploits.  Best 
of  fifty  birds  from  a good  loft,  his  future  was 
bright  with  promise. 

He  was  invested  with  the  silver  anklet  of  the 
Sacred  Order  of  the  High  Homer.  It  bore 
his  number,  2590  C,  a number  which  to-day 
means  much  to  all  men  in  the  world  of  the 
Homing  Pigeon. 

In  that  trial  flight  from  Elizabeth  only  forty 
birds  had  returned.  It  is  usually  so.  Some 
were  weak  and  got  left  behind,  some  were 
foolish  and  strayed.  By  this  simple  process 
of  flight  selection  the  pigeon-owners  keep  im- 
proving their  stock.  Of  the  ten,  five  were  seen 
no  more,  but  five  returned  later  that  day,  not 
all  at  once,  but  straggling  in ; the  last  of  the 


77 


Arnaux 


loiterers  was  a big,  lubberly  Blue  Pigeon.  The 
man  in  the  loft  at  the  time  called : “ Here 
comes  that  old  sap-headed  Blue  that  Jakey  was 
betting  on.  I did  n’t  suppose  he  would  come 
back,  and  I did  n’t  care,  neither,  for  it  ’s  my 
belief  he  has  a streak  of  Pouter.” 

The  Big  Blue,  also  called  “ Corner-box  ” from 
the  nest  where  he  was  hatched,  had  shown  re- 
markable vigor  from  the  first.  Though  all 
were  about  the  same  age,  he  had  grown  faster, 
was  bigger,  and  incidentally  handsomer,  though 
the  fanciers  cared  little  for  that.  He  seemed 
fully  aware  of  his  importance,  and  early  showed 
a disposition  to  bully  his  smaller  cousins.  His 
owner  prophesied  great  things  of  him,  but  Billy, 
the  stable-man,  had  grave  doubts  over  the  length 
of  his  neck,  the  bigness  of  his  crop,  his  carriage, 
and  his  over-size.  “A  bird  can’t  make  time 
pushing  a bag  of  wind  ahead  of  him.  Them 
long  legs  is  dead  weight,  an’  a neck  like  that 
ain’t  got  no  gimp  in  it,”  Billy  would  grunt  dis- 
paragingly as  he  cleaned  out  the  loft  of  a 
morning. 


78 


Arnaux 


II 


The  training  of  the  birds  went  on  after  this 
at  regular  times.  The  distance  from  home,  of 
the  start,  was  “ jumped  ” twenty-five  or  thirty 
miles  farther  each  day,  and  its  direction  changed 
till  the  Homers  knew  the  country  for  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  around  New  York.  The 
original  fifty  birds  dwindled  to  twenty,  for  the 
rigid  process  weeds  out  not  only  the  weak  and 
ill-equipped,  but  those  also  who  may  have  tem- 
porary ailments  or  accidents,  or  who  may  make 
the  mistake  of  over-eating  at  the  start.  There 
were  many  fine  birds  in  that  flight,  broad- 
breasted, bright-eyed,  long-winged  creatures, 
formed  for  swiftest  flight,  for  high  unconscious 
emprise,  for  these  were  destined  to  be  messen- 
gers in  the  service  of  man  in  times  of  serious 
need.  Their  colors  were  mostly  white,  blue, 
or  brown.  They  wore  no  uniform,  but  each 
and  all  of  the  chosen  remnant  had  the  brilliant 
eye  and  the  bulging  ears  of  the  finest  Homer 
blood ; and,  best  and  choicest  of  all,  nearly  al- 
ways first  among  them  was  little  Arnaux.  He 


79 


Arnaux 


had  not  much  to  distinguish  him  when  at  rest, 
for  now  all  of  the  band  had  the  silver  anklet,  but 
in  the  air  it  was  that  Arnaux  showed  his  make, 
and  when  the  opening  of  the  hamper  gave  the 
order  “ Start,”  it  was  Arnaux  that  first  got 
under  way,  soared  to  the  height  deemed  need- 
ful to  exclude  all  local  influence,  divined  the 
road  to  home,  and  took  it,  pausing  not  for 
food,  drink,  or  company. 

Notwithstanding  Billy’s  evil  forecasts,  the 
Big  Blue  of  the  Corner-box  was  one  of  the 
chosen  twenty.  Often  he  was  late  in  return- 
ing ; he  never  was  first,  and  sometimes  when 
he  came  back  hours  behind  the  rest,  it  was 
plain  that  he  was  neither  hungry  nor  thirsty, 
sure  signs  that  he  was  a loiterer  by  the  way. 
Still  he  had  come  back ; and  now  he  wore  on 
his  ankle,  like  the  rest,  the  sacred  badge  and  a 
number  from  the  roll  of  possible  fame.  Billy 
despised  him,  set  him  in  poor  contrast  with 
Arnaux,  but  his  owner  would  reply : " Give 
him  a chance ; ‘ soon  ripe,  soon  rotten,’  an’  I 
always  notice  the  best  bird  is  the  slowest  to 
show  up  at  first.” 

Before  a year  little  Arnaux  had  made  a rec- 
80 


Arnaux 


ord.  The  hardest  of  all  work  is  over  the  sea, 
for  there  is  no  chance  of  aid  from  landmarks ; 
and  the  hardest  of  all  times  at  sea  is  in  fog,  for 
then  even  the  sun  is  blotted  out  and  there  is 
nothing  whatever  for  guidance.  With  mem- 
ory, sight,  and  hearing  unavailable,  the  Homer 
has  one  thing  left,  and  herein  is  his  great 
strength,  the  inborn  sense  of  direction.  There 
is  only  one  thing  that  can  destroy  this,  and 
that  is  fear , hence  the  necessity  of  a stout  little 
heart  between  those  noble  wings. 

Arnaux,  with  two  of  his  order,  in  course  of 
training,  had  been  shipped  on  an  ocean  steamer 
bound  for  Europe.  They  were  to  be  released 
out  of  sight  of  land,  but  a heavy  fog  set  in  and 
forbade  the  start.  The  steamer  took  them  on- 
ward, the  intention  being  to  send  them  back  with 
the  next  vessel.  When  ten  hours  out  the  engine 
broke  down,  the  fog  settled  dense  over  the  sea, 
and  the  vessel  was  adrift  and  helpless  as  a log. 
She  could  only  whistle  for  assistance,  and  so 
far  as  results  were  concerned,  the  captain 
might  as  well  have  wigwagged.  Then  the 
Pigeons  were  thought  of.  Starback,  2592  C, 
was  first  selected.  A message  for  help  was 
81 


Arnaux 


written  on  waterproof  paper,  rolled  up,  and 
lashed  to  his  tail-feathers  on  the  under  side. 
He  was  thrown  into  the  air  and  disappeared. 
Half  an  hour  later,  a second,  the  Big  Blue 
Corner-box,  2600  C,  was  freighted  with  a 
letter.  He  flew  up,  but  almost  immediately 
returned  and  alighted  on  the  rigging.  He  was 
a picture  of  pigeon  fear ; nothing  could  induce 
him  to  leave  the  ship.  He  was  so  terrorized 
that  he  was  easily  caught  and  ignominiously 
thrust  back  into  the  coop. 

Now  the  third  was  brought  out,  a small, 
chunky  bird.  The  shipmen  did  not  know  him, 
but  they  noted  down  from  his  anklet  his  name 
and  number,  Arnaux,  2590  C.  It  meant  no- 
thing to  them.  But  the  officer  who  held  him 
noted  that  his  heart  did  not  beat  so  wildly 
as  that  of  the  last  bird.  The  message  was 
taken  from  the  Big  Blue.  It  ran : 


10  A.M.,  Tuesday. 

We  broke  our  shaft  two  hundred  and  ten  miles  out 
from  New  York;  we  are  drifting  helplessly  in  the  fog. 
Send  out  a tug  as  soon  as  possible.  We  are  whistling 
one  long,  followed  at  once  by  one  short,  every  sixty 
seconds.  (Signed)  The  Captain. 

82 


Arnaux 


This  was  rolled  up,  wrapped  in  waterproof 
film,  addressed  to  the  Steamship  Company,  and 
lashed  to  the  under  side  of  Arnaux’s  middle 
tail-feather. 

When  thrown  into  the  air,  he  circled  round 
the  ship,  then  round  again  higher,  then  again 
higher  in  a wider  circle,  and  he  was  lost  to 
view  ; and  still  higher  till  quite  out  of  sight  and 
feeling  of  the  ship.  Shut  out  from  the  use  of 
all  his  senses  now  but  one,  he  gave  himself  up 
to  that.  Strong  in  him  it  was,  and  untrammelled 
of  that  murderous  despot  Fear . True  as  a 
needle  to  the  Pole  went  Arnaux  now,  no  hesita- 
tion, no  doubts;  within  one  minute  of  leaving 
the  coop  he  was  speeding  straight  as  a ray  of 
light  for  the  loft  where  he  was  born,  the  only 
place  on  earth  where  he  could  be  made  content. 

That  afternoon  Billy  was  on  duty  when  the 
whistle  of  fast  wings  was  heard ; a blue  Flyer 
flashed  into  the  loft  and  made  for  the  water- 
trough.  He  was  gulping  down  mouthful  after 
mouthful,  when  Billy  gasped  : “ Why,  Arnaux, 
it  ’s  you,  you  beauty.”  Then,  with  the  quick 
habit  of  the  pigeon-man,  he  pulled  out  his 
watch  and  marked  the  time,  2:40  p.m.  A 

*5 


Arnaux 


glance  showed  the  tie  string  on  the  tail.  He  shut 
the  door  and  dropped  the  catching-net  quickly 
over  Arnaux’s  head.  A moment  later  he  had 
the  roll  in  his  hand ; in  two  minutes  he  was 
speeding  to  the  office  of  the  Company,  for  there 
was  a fat  tip  in  view.  There  he  learned  that 
Arnaux  had  made  the  two  hundred  and  ten 
miles  in  fog,  over  sea,  in  four  hours  and  forty 
minutes,  and  within  one  hour  the  needful  help 
had  set  out  for  the  unfortunate  steamer. 

Two  hundred  and  ten  miles  in  fog  over  sea  in 
four  hours  and forty  minutes!  This  was  a noble 
record.  It  was  duly  inscribed  in  the  rolls  of 
the  Homing  Club.  Arnaux  was  held  while 
the  secretary,  with  rubber  stamp  and  indelible 
ink,  printed  on  a snowy  primary  of  his  right 
wing  the  record  of  the  feat,  with  the  date  and 
reference  number. 

Starback,  the  second  bird,  never  was  heard 
of  again.  No  doubt  he  perished  at  sea. 

Blue  Corner-box  came  back  on  the  tug. 


Arnaux 


in 


That  was  Arnaux’s  first  public  record ; but 
others  came  fast,  and  several  curious  scenes  were 
enacted  in  that  old  pigeon-loft  with  Arnaux  as 
the  central  figure.  One  day  a carriage  drove 
up  to  the  stable ; a white-haired  gentleman  got 
out,  climbed  the  dusty  stairs,  and  sat  all  morning 
in  the  loft  with  Billy.  Peering  from  his  gold- 
rimmed  glasses,  first  at  a lot  of  papers,  next 
across  the  roofs  of  the  city,  waiting,  watching, 
for  what  ? News  from  a little  place  not  forty 
miles  away — news  of  greatest  weight  to  him, 
tidings  that  would  make  or  break  him,  tidings 
that  must  reach  him  before  it  could  be  tele- 
graphed : a telegram  meant  at  least  an  hour’s 
delay  at  each  end.  What  was  faster  than  that 
for  forty  miles  ? In  those  days  there  was  but 
one  thing — a high-class  Homer.  Money  would 
count  for  nothing  if  he  could  win.  The  best, 
the  very  best  at  any  price  he  must  have,  and  Ar- 
naux, with  seven  indelible  records  on  his  pinions, 
was  the  chosen  messenger.  An  hour  went  by, 
another,  and  a third  was  begun,  when  with 


87 


Arnaux 


whistle  of  wings,  the  blue  meteor  flashed  into 
the  loft.  Billy  slammed  the  door  and  caught 
him.  Deftly  he  snipped  the  threads  and  handed 
the  roll  to  the  banker.  The  old  man  turned 
deathly  pale,  fumbled  it  open,  then  his  color 
came  back.  “ Thank  God  ! ” he  gasped,  and 
then  went  speeding  to  his  Board  meeting,  master 
of  the  situation.  Little  Arnaux  had  saved  him. 

The  banker  wanted  to  buy  the  Homer,  feel- 
ing in  a vague  way  that  he  ought  to  honor 
and  cherish  him ; but  Billy  was  very  clear 
about  it.  “ What ’s  the  good  ? You  can’t  buy 
a Homer’s  heart.  You  could  keep  him  a 
prisoner,  that ’s  all ; but  nothing  on  earth  could 
make  him  forsake  the  old  loft  where  he  was 
hatched.”  So  Arnaux  stayed  at  21 1 West 
Nineteenth  Street.  But  the  banker  did  not 
forget. 

There  is  in  our  country  a class  of  miscreants 
who  think  a flying  Pigeon  is  fair  game,  because 
it  is  probably  far  from  home,  or  they  shoot  him 
because  it  is  hard  to  fix  the  crime.  Many  a 
noble  Homer,  speeding  with  a life  or  death 
message,  has  been  shot  down  by  one  of  these 
wretches  and  remorselessly  made  into  a pot-pie. 

88 


Arnaux 


Arnaux’s  brother  Arnolf,  with  three  fine  records 
on  his  wings,  was  thus  murdered  in  the  act  of 
bearing  a hasty  summons  for  the  doctor.  As  he 
fell  dying  at  the  gunner’s  feet,  his  superb  wings 
spread  out  displayed  his  list  of  victories.  The 
silver  badge  on  his  leg  was  there,  and  the 
gunner  was  smitten  with  remorse.  He  had  the 
message  sent  on ; he  returned  the  dead  bird  to 
the  Homing  Club,  saying  that  he  “ found  it.” 
The  owner  came  to  see  him ; the  gunner  broke 
down  under  cross-examination,  and  was  forced 
to  admit  that  he  himself  had  shot  the  Homer, 
but  did  so  in  behalf  of  a poor  sick  neighbor 
who  craved  a pigeon-pie. 

There  were  tears  in  the  wrath  of  the  pigeon- 
man.  “ My  bird,  my  beautiful  Arnolf,  twenty 
times  has  he  brought  vital  messages,  three 
times  has  he  made  records,  twice  has  he  saved 
human  lives,  and  you ’d  shoot  him  for  a pot-pie. 
I could  punish  you  under  the  law,  but  I have 
no  heart  for  such  a poor  revenge.  I only  ask 
you  this,  if  ever  again  you  have  a sick  neighbor 
who  wants  a pigeon-pie,  come,  we  ’ll  freely  sup- 
ply him  with  pie-breed  squabs ; but  if  you  have 
a trace  of  manhood  about  you,  you  will  never, 
89 


Arnaux 


never  again  shoot,  or  allow  others  to  shoot,  our 
noble  and  priceless  messengers.” 

This  took  place  while  the  banker  was  in 
touch  with  the  loft,  while  his  heart  was  warm 
for  the  Pigeons.  He  was  a man  of  influence, 
and  the  Pigeon  Protective  legislation  at  Albany 
was  the  immediate  fruit  of  Arnaux’s  exploit. 

IV 

Billy  had  never  liked  the  Corner-box  Blue 
(2600  C) ; notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  still 
continued  in  the  ranks  of  the  Silver  Badge, 
Billy  believed  he  was  poor  stuff.  The  steamer 
incident  seemed  to  prove  him  a coward ; he 
certainly  was  a bully. 

One  morning  when  Billy  went  in  there  was 
a row,  two  Pigeons,  a large  and  a small,  alter- 
nately clinching  and  sparring  all  over  the  floor, 
feathers  flying,  dust  and  commotion  everywhere. 
As  soon  as  they  were  separated  Billy  found  that 
the  little  one  was  Arnaux  and  the  big  one  was 
the  Corner-box  Blue.  Arnaux  had  made  a good 
fight,  but  was  overmatched,  for  the  Big  Blue 
was  half  as  heavy  again. 


90 


Amaux 


Soon  it  was  very  clear  what  they  had  fought 
over — a pretty  little  lady  Pigeon  of  the  bluest 
Homing  blood.  The  Big  Blue  cock  had  kept 
up  a state  of  bad  feeling  by  his  bullying,  but  it 
was  the  Little  Lady  that  had  made  them  close 
in  mortal  combat.  Billy  had  no  authority  to 
wring  the  Big  Blue’s  neck,  but  he  interfered 
as  far  as  he  could  in  behalf  of  his  favorite 
Arnaux. 

Pigeon  marriages  are  arranged  somewhat 
like  those  of  mankind.  Propinquity  is  the 
first  thing : force  the  pair  together  for  a time  and 
let  nature  take  its  course.  So  Billy  locked  Ar- 
naux and  the  Little  Lady  up  together  in  a 
separate  apartment  for  two  weeks,  and  to  make 
doubly  sure  he  locked  Big  Blue  up  with  an 
Available  Lady  in  another  apartment  for  two 
weeks. 

Things  turned  out  just  as  was  expected.  The 
Little  Lady  surrendered  to  Arnaux  and  the 
Available  Lady  to  the  Big  Blue.  Two  nests 
were  begun  and  everything  shaped  for  a “lived 
happily  ever  after.”  But  the  Big  Blue  was  very 
big  and  handsome.  He  could  blow  out  his 
crop  and  strut  in  the  sun  and  make  rainbows 


91 


Arnaux 


all  round  his  neck  in  a way  that  might  turn  the 
heart  of  the  staidest  Homerine. 

Arnaux,  though  sturdily  built,  was  small  and 
except  for  his  brilliant  eyes,  not  especially  good- 
looking.  Moreover,  he  was  often  away  on  im- 
portant business,  and  the  Big  Blue  had  nothing 
to  do  but  stay  around  the  loft  and  display  his 
unlettered  wings. 

It  is  the  custom  of  moralists  to  point  to  the 
lower  animals,  and  especially  to  the  Pigeon,  for 
examples  of  love  and  constancy,  and  properly 
so,  but,  alas!  there  are  exceptions.  Vice  is  not 
by  any  means  limited  to  the  human  race. 

Arnaux’s  wife  had  been  deeply  impressed 
with  the  Big  Blue,  at  the  outset,  and  at  length 
while  her  spouse  was  absent  the  dreadful  thing 
took  place. 

Arnaux  returned  from  Boston  one  day  to 
find  that  the  Big  Blue,  while  he  retained  his 
own  Available  Lady  in  the  corner-box,  had 
also  annexed  the  box  and  wife  that  belonged  to 
himself,  and  a desperate  battle  followed.  The 
only  spectators  were  the  two  wives,  but  they 
maintained  an  indifferent  aloofness.  Arnaux 
fought  with  his  famous  wings,  but  they  were 

92 


Arnaux 


none  the  better  weapons  because  they  now  bore 
twenty  records.  His  beak  and  feet  were  small, 
as  became  his  blood,  and  his  stout  little  heart 
could  not  make  up  for  his  lack  of  weight.  The 
battle  went  against  him.  His  wife  sat  uncon- 
cernedly in  the  nest,  as  though  it  were  not  her 
affair,  and  Arnaux  might  have  been  killed  but 
for  the  timely  arrival  of  Billy.  He  was  angry 
enough  to  wring  the  Blue  bird’s  neck,  but  the 
bully  escaped  from  the  loft  in  time.  Billy  took 
tender  care  of  Arnaux  for  a few  days.  At  the 
end  of  a week  he  was  well  again,  and  in  ten 
days  he  was  once  more  on  the  road.  Meanwhile 
he  had  evidently  forgiven  his  faithless  wife,  for, 
without  any  apparent  feeling,  he  took  up  his 
nesting  as  before.  That  month  he  made  two 
new  records.  He  brought  a message  ten  miles 
in  eight  minutes,  and  he  came  from  Boston  in 
four  hours.  Every  ifioment  of  the  way  he  had 
been  impelled  by  the  master-passion  of  home- 
love.  But  it  was  a poor  home-coming  if  his 
wife  figured  at  all  in  his  thoughts,  for  he  found 
her  again  flirting  with  the  Big  Blue  cock. 
Tired  as  he  was,  the  duel  was  renewed,  and 
again  would  have  been  to  a finish  but  for  Billy’s 


93 


Arnaux 


interference.  He  separated  the  fighters,  then 
shut  the  Blue  cock  up  in  a coop,  determined  to 
get  rid  of  him  in  some  way.  Meanwhile  the 
“ Any  Age  Sweepstakes  ” handicap  from  Chi- 
cago to  New  York  was  on,  a race  of  nine 
hundred  miles.  Arnaux  had  been  entered  six 
months  before.  His  forfeit-money  was  up,  and 
notwithstanding  his  domestic  complications, 
his  friends  felt  that  he  must  not  fail  to  appear. 

The  birds  were  sent  by  train  to  Chicago,  to 
be  liberated  at  intervals  there  according  to  their 
handicap,  and  last  of  the  start  was  Arnaux. 
They  lost  no  time,  and  outside  of  Chicago  several 
of  these  prime  Flyers  joined  by  common  impulse 
into  a racing  flock  that  went  through  air  on  the 
same  invisible  track.  A Homer  may  make  a 
straight  line  when  following  his  general  sense 
of  direction,  but  when  following  a familiar  back 
track  he  sticks  to  the  well-remembered  land- 
marks. Most  of  the  birds  had  been  trained  by 
way  of  Columbus  and  Buffalo.  Arnaux  knew 
the  Columbus  route,  but  also  he  knew  that  by  De- 
troit, and  after  leaving  Lake  Michigan,  he  took 
the  straight  line  for  Detroit.  Thus  he  caught 
up  on  his  handicap  and  had  the  advantage  of 

94 


Arnaux 


many  miles.  Detroit,  Buffalo,  Rochester,  with 
their  familiar  towers  and  chimneys,  faded  behind 
him,  and  Syracuse  was  near  at  hand.  It  was 
now  late  afternoon ; six  hundred  miles  in  twelve 
hours  he  had  flown  and  was  undoubtedly  lead- 
ing the  race ; but  the  usual  thirst  of  the  Flyer 
had  attacked  him.  Skimming  over  the  city 
roofs,  he  saw  a loft  of  Pigeons,  and  descending 
from  his  high  course  in  two  or  three  great  cir- 
cles, he  followed  the  ingoing  Birds  to  the  loft 
and  drank  greedily  at  the  water-trough,  as  he 
had  often  done  before,  and  as  every  pigeon- 
lover  hospitably  expects  the  messengers  to  do. 
The  owner  of  the  loft  was  there  and  noted  the 
strange  Bird.  He  stepped  quietly  to  where  he 
could  inspect  him.  One  of  his  own  Pigeons 
made  momentary  opposition  to  the  stranger,  and 
Arnaux,  sparring  sidewise  with  an  open  wing 
in  Pigeon  style,  displayed  the  long  array  of 
printed  records.  The  man  was  a fancier.  His 
interest  was  aroused ; he  pulled  the  string  that 
shut  the  flying  door,  and  in  a few  minutes  Ar- 
naux was  his  prisoner. 

The  robber  spread  the  much-inscribed  wings, 
read  record  after  record,  and  glancing  at 


Arnaux 


the  silver  badge — it  should  have  been  gold — 
he  read  his  name — Arnaux;  then  exclaimed: 
“Arnaux!  Arnaux!  Oh,  I ’ve  heard  of  you, 
you  little  beauty,  and  it ’s  glad  I am  to  trap  you.” 
He  snipped  the  message  from  his  tail,  un- 
rolled it,  and  read : “ Arnaux  left  Chicago  this 
morning  at  4 a.m.,  scratched  in  the  Any  Age 
Sweepstakes  for  New  York.” 

“ Six  hundred  miles  in  twelve  hours!  By  the 
powers,  that  ’s  a record-breaker.”  And  the 
pigeon-stealer  gently,  almost  reverently,  put 
the  fluttering  Bird  safely  into  a padded  cage. 
“ Well,”  he  added,  “ I know  it ’s  no  use  trying 
to  make  you  stay,  but  I can  breed  from  you 
and  have  some  of  your  strain.” 

So  Arnaux  was  shut  up  in  a large  and  com- 
fortable loft  with  several  other  prisoners.  The 
man,  though  a thief,  was  a lover  of  Homers ; 
he  gave  his  captive  everything  that  could 
insure  his  comfort  and  safety.  For  three 
months  he  left  him  in  that  loft.  At  first  Ar- 
naux did  nothing  all  day  but  walk  up  and 
down  the  wire  screen,  looking  high  and  low 
for  means  of  escape ; but  in  the  fourth  month 
he  seemed  to  have  abandoned  the  attempt,  and 
96 


Arnaux 


the  watchful  jailer  began  the  second  part  of 
his  scheme.  He  introduced  a coy  young  lady 
Pigeon.  But  it  did  not  seem  to  answer;  Ar- 
naux was  not  even  civil  to  her.  After  a time  the 
jailer  removed  the  female,  and  Arnaux  was  left 
in  solitary  confinement  for  a month.  Now  a 
different  female  was  brought  in,  but  with  no 
better  luck ; and  thus  it  went  on — for  a year 
different  charmers  were  introduced.  Arnaux 
either  violently  repelled  them  or  was  scornfully 
indifferent,  and  at  times  the  old  longing  to  get 
away,  came  back  with  twofold  power,  so  that 
he  darted  up  and  down  the  wire  front  or 
dashed  with  all  his  force  against  it. 

When  the  storied  feathers  of  his  wings  be- 
gan their  annual  moult,  his  jailer  saved  them 
as  precious  things,  and  as  each  new  feather 
came  he  reproduced  on  it  the  record  of  its 
owner’s  fame. 

Two  years  went  slowly  by,  and  the  jailer 
had  put  Arnaux  in  a new  loft  and  brought  in 
another  lady  Pigeon.  By  chance  she  closely 
resembled  the  faithless  one  at  home.  Arnaux 
actually  heeded  the  newcomer.  Once  the 
jailer  thought  he  saw  his  famous  prisoner  pay- 


97 


Arnaux 


ing  some  slight  attention  to  the  charmer,  and, 
yes,  he  surely  saw  her  preparing  a nest.  Then 
assuming  that  they  had  reached  a full  under- 
standing, the  jailer,  for  the  first  time,  opened 
the  outlet,  and  Arnaux  was  free.  Did  he  hang 
around  in  doubt?  Did  he  hesitate?  No,  not 
for  one  moment.  As  soon  as  the  drop  of  the 
door  left  open  the  way,  he  shot  through,  he 
spread  those  wonderful  blazoned  wings,  and, 
with  no  second  thought  for  the  latest  Circe, 
sprang  from  the  hated  prison  loft— away  and 
away. 

V 

We  have  no  means  of  looking  into  the  Pig- 
eon’s mind  ; we  may  go  wrong  in  conjuring  up 
for  it  deep  thoughts  of  love  and  welcome  home ; 
but  we  are  safe  in  this,  we  cannot  too  strongly 
paint,  we  cannot  too  highly  praise  and  glorify 
that  wonderful  God-implanted,  mankind-fos- 
tered home-love  that  glows  unquenchably  in 
this  noble  bird.  Call  it  what  you  like,  a mere 
instinct  deliberately  constructed  by  man  for  his 
selfish  ends,  explain  it  away  if  you  will,  dissect 
it,  misname  it,  and  it  still  is  there,  in  over- 

9s 


Arnaux 


whelming,  imperishable  master-power,  as  long 
as  the  brave  little  heart  and  wings  can  beat. 

Home,  home,  sweet  home!  Never  had 
mankind  a stronger  love  of  home  than  Arnaux. 
The  trials  and  sorrows  of  the  old  pigeon-loft 
were  forgotten  in  that  all-dominating  force  of 
his  nature.  Not  years  of  prison  bars,  not  later 
loves,  nor  fear  of  death,  could  down  its  power ; 
and  Arnaux,  had  the  gift  of  song  been  his, 
must  surely  have  sung  as  sings  a hero  in  his 
highest  joy,  when  sprang  he  from  the  ’lighting 
board,  up-circling  free,  soaring,  drawn  by  the 
only  impulse  that  those  glorious  wings  would 
honor, — up,  up,  in  widening,  heightening  circles 
of  ashy  blue  in  the  blue,  flashing  those  many- 
lettered  wings  of  white,  till  they  seemed  like  jets 
of  fire — up  and  on,  driven  by  that  home-love, 
faithful  to  his  only  home  and  to  his  faithless 
mate ; closing  his  eyes,  they  say ; closing  his 
ears,  they  tell;  shutting  his  mind, — we  all  be- 
lieve,—to  nearer  things,  to  two  years  of  his  life, 
to  one  half  of  his  prime,  but  soaring  in  the 
blue,  retiring,  as  a saint  might  do,  into  his  inner 
self,  giving  himself  up  to  that  inmost  guide. 
He  was  the  captain  of  the  ship,  but  the  pilot, 


V 


99 


li 

USfc: 


Arnaux 


j, 


the  chart  and  compass,  all,  were  that  deep-im- 
planted instinct.  One  thousand  feet  above 
the  trees  the  inscrutable  whisper  came,  and 
Arnaux  in  arrowy  swiftness  now  was  pointing 
for  the  south-southeast.  The  little  flashes  of 
white  fire  on  each  side  were  lost  in  the  low 
sky,  and  the  reverent  robber  of  Syracuse  saw 
Arnaux  nevermore. 

The  fast  express  was  steaming  down  the 
valley.  It  was  far  ahead,  but  Arnaux  overtook 
and  passed  it,  as  the  flying  wild  Duck  passes 
the  swimming  Muskrat.  High  in  the  valleys 
he  went,  low  over  the  hills  of  Chenango,  where 
the  pines  were  combing  the  breezes. 

Out  from  his  oak-tree  eyrie  a Hawk  came 
wheeling  and  sailing,  silent,  for  he  had  marked 
the  Flyer,  and  meant  him  for  his  prey.  Arnaux 
turned  neither  right  nor  left,  nor  raised  nor 
lowered  his  flight,  nor  lost  a wing-beat.  The 
Hawk  was  in  waiting  in  the  gap  ahead,  and 
Arnaux  passed  him,  even  as  a Deer  in  his 
prime  may  pass  by  a Bear  in  his  pathway. 
Home!  home!  was  the  only  burning  thought, 
the  blinding  impulse. 

Beat,  beat,  beat,  those  flashing  pinions  went 


ioo 


Arnaux 


with  speed  unslacked  on  the  now  familiar  road. 
In  an  hour  the  Catskills  were  at  hand.  In  two 
hours  he  was  passing  over  them.  Old  friendly 
places,  swiftly  coming  now,  lent  more  force  to 
his  wings.  Home!  home!  was  the  silent  song 
that  his  heart  was  singing.  Like  the  traveller 
dying  of  thirst,  that  sees  the  palm-trees  far 
ahead,  his  brilliant  eyes  took  in  the  distant 
smoke  of  Manhattan. 

Out  from  the  crest  of  the  Catskills  there 
launched  a Falcon.  Swiftest  of  the  race  of 
rapine,  proud  of  his  strength,  proud  of  his 
wings,  he  rejoiced  in  a worthy  prey.  Many 
and  many  a Pigeon  had  been  borne  to  his  nest, 
and  riding  the  wind  he  came,  swooping,  reserv- 
ing his  strength,  awaiting  the  proper  time.  Oh, 
how  well  he  knew  the  very  moment ! Down, 
down  like  a flashing  javelin  ; no  wild  Duck,  no 
Hawk  could  elude  him,  for  this  was  a Falcon. 
Turn  back  now,  O Homer,  and  save  yourself ; 
go  round  the  dangerous  hills.  Did  he  turn? 
Not  a whit!  for  this  was  Arnaux.  Home! 
home  ! home  ! was  his  only  thought.  To  meet 
the  danger,  he  merely  added  to  his  speed ; and 
the  Peregrine  stooped;  stooped  at  what?— a 


IOI 


Arnaux 


flashing  of  color,  a twinkling  of  whiteness— and 
went  back  empty.  While  Arnaux  cleft  the  air 
of  the  valley  as  a stone  from  a sling,  to  be  lost — 
a white-winged  bird — a spot  with  flashing  halo 
— and,  quickly,  a speck  in  the  offing.  On  down 
the  dear  valley  of  Hudson,  the  well-known 
highway ; for  two  years  he  had  not  seen  it  ! 
Now  he  dropped  low  as  the  noon  breeze  came 
north  and  ruffled  the  river  below  him.  Home! 
home  ! home  ! and  the  towers  of  a city  are 
coming  in  view  ! Home  ! home  ! past  the 
great  spider-bridge  of  Poughkeepsie,  skimming, 
skirting  the  river-banks.  Low  now  by  the 
bank  as  the  wind  arose.  Low,  alas  ! too  low  ! 
What  fiend  was  it  tempted  a gunner  in  June  to 
''I/'  lurk  on  that  hill  by  the  margin?  what  devil 
i directed  his  gaze  to  the  twinkling  of  white  that 
came  from  the  blue  to  the  northward?  Oh, 

' Arnaux,  Arnaux,  skimming  low,  forget  not  the 
/ gunner  of  old  ! Too  low,  too  low  you  are  clear- 
ing that  hill.  Too  low  — too  late!  Flash  — 
bang ! and  the  death-hail  has  reached  him ; 
reached,  maimed,  but  not  downed  him.  Out 
of  the  flashing  pinions  broken  feathers  printed 
with  records  went  fluttering  earthward.  The 


102 


Arnaux 


“ naught  ” of  his  sea  record  was  gone.  Not  two 
hundred  and  ten,  but  twenty-one  miles  it  now 
read.  Oh,  shameful  pillage ! A dark  stain 
appeared  on  his  bosom,  but  Arnaux  kept  on. 
Home,  home,  homeward  bound.  The  danger 
was  past  in  an  instant.  Home,  homeward  he 
steered  straight  as  before,  but  the  wonderful 
speed  was  diminished  ; not  a mile  a minute  now  ; 
and  the  wind  made  undue  sounds  in  his  tat- 
tered pinions.  The  stain  in  his  breast  told  of 
broken  force ; but  on,  straight  on,  he  flew. 
Home,  home  was  in  sight,  and  the  pain  in  his 
breast  was  forgotten.  The  tall  towers  of  the 
city  were  in  clear  view  of  his  far-seeing  eye  as 
he  skimmed  by  the  high  cliffs  of  Jersey.  On, 
on— the  pinion  might  flag,  the  eye  might 
darken,  but  the  home-love  was  stronger  and 
stronger. 

Under  the  tall  Palisades,  to  be  screened 
from  the  wind,  he  passed,  over  the  sparkling 
water,  over  the  trees,  under  the  Peregrines’ 
eyrie,  under  the  pirates’  castle  where  the  great 
grim  Peregrines  sat ; peering  like  black-masked 
highwaymen  they  marked  the  on-coming  Pig- 
eon. Arnaux  knew  them  of  old.  Many  a 


103 


Arnaux 


message  was  lying  undelivered  in  that  nest, 
many  a record-bearing  plume  had  fluttered 
away  from  its  fastness.  But  Arnaux  had  faced 
them  before,  and  now  he  came  as  before  — on, 
onward,  swift,  but  not  as  he  had  been ; the 
deadly  gun  had  sapped  his  force,  had  lowered 
his  speed.  On,  on  ; and  the  Peregrines,  biding 
their  time,  went  forth  like  two  bow-bolts ; strong 
and  lightning-swift  they  went  against  one  weak 
and  wearied. 

Why  tell  of  the  race  that  followed  ? Why 
paint  the  despair  of  a brave  little  heart  in  sight 
of  the  home  he  had  craved  in  vain?  In  a 
minute  all  was  over.  The  Peregrines  screeched 
in  their  triumph.  Screeching  and  sailing,  they 
swung  to  their  eyrie,  and  the  prey  in  their  claws 
was  the  body,  the  last  of  the  bright  little  Ar- 
naux. There  on  the  rocks  the  beaks  and  claws 
of  the  bandits  were  red  with  the  life  of  the 
hero.  Torn  asunder  were  those  matchless 
wings,  and  their  records  were  scattered  un- 
noticed. In  sun  and  in  storm  they  lay  till  the 
killers  themselves  were  killed  and  their  strong- 
hold rifled.  And  none  knew  the  fate  of  the 
peerless  Bird  till  deep  in  the  dust  and  rubbish 
104 


The  Pirates  in  Ambush. 


Arnaux 


of  that  pirate-nest  the  avenger  found,  among 
others  of  its  kind,  a silver  ring,  the  sacred 
badge  of  the  High  Homer,  and  read  upon  it 
the  pregnant  inscription : 

“ ARNAUX,  259O  C.” 


107 


Badlands  Billy 

The  Wolf  that  Won 


THE  HOWL  BY  NIGHT 


O you  know  the  three  calls 
of  the  hunting  Wolf: — the 
long-drawn  deep  howl,  the 
muster,  that  tells  of  game 
discovered  but  too  strong 
for  the  finder  to  manage 
alone  ; and  the  higher  ulula- 
tion  that  ringing  and  swelling  is  the  cry  of  the 
pack  on  a hot  scent ; and  the  sharp  bark  coupled 
with  a short  howl  that,  seeming  least  of  all,  is 
yet  a gong  of  doom,  for  this  is  the  cry  “ Close 
in ” — this  is  the  finish? 

We  were  riding  the  Badland  Buttes,  King 


and 


I,  with  a pack  of  various  hunting  Dogs 


hi 


Badlands  Billy 

stringing  behind  or  trotting  alongside.  The 
sun  had  gone  from  the  sky,  and  a blood- 
streak  marked  the  spot  where  he  died,  away 
over  Sentinel  Butte.  The  hills  were  dim,  the 
valleys  dark,  when  from  the  nearest  gloom  there 
rolled  a long-drawn  cry  that  all  men  recognize 
instinctively — melodious,  yet  with  a tone  in 
it  that  sends  a shudder  up  the  spine,  though 
now  it  has  lost  all  menace  for  mankind.  We 
listened  for  a moment.  It  was  the  Wolf-hunter 
who  broke  silence : “ That ’s  Badlands  Billy ; 
ain’t  it  a voice  ? He ’s  out  for  his  beef  to-night.” 

II 

ANCIENT  DAYS 

In  pristine  days  the  Buffalo  herds  were  fol- 
lowed by  bands  of  Wolves  that  preyed  on  the 
sick,  the  weak,  and  the  wounded.  When  the 
Buffalo  were  exterminated  the  Wolves  were 
hard  put  for  support,  but  the  Cattle  came  and 
solved  the  question  for  them  by  taking  the 
Buffaloes’  place.  This  caused  the  wolf-war. 
The  ranchmen  offered  a bounty  for  each  Wolf 


1 1 2 


Badlands  Billy 

killed,  and  every  cowboy  out  of  work,  was  sup- 
plied with  traps  and  poison  for  wolf-killing. 
The  very  expert  made  this  their  sole  business 
and  became  known  as  wolvers.  King  Ryder 
was  one  of  these.  He  was  a quiet,  gentlg- 
spoken  fellow,  with  a keen  eye  and  an  insight 
into  animal  life  that  gave  him  especial  power 
over  Broncos  and  Dogs,  as  well  as  Wolves  and 
Bears,  though  in  the  last  two  cases  it  was 
power  merely  to  surmise  where  they  were  and 
how  best  to  get  at  them.  He  had  been  a 
wolver  for  years,  and  greatly  surprised  me  by 
saying  that  “ never  in  all  his  experience  had 
he  known  a Gray-wolf  to  attack  a human 
being.” 

We  had  many  camp-fire  talks  while  the  other 
men  were  sleeping,  and  then  it  was  I learned 
the  little  that  he  knew  about  Badlands  Billy. 
“ Six  times  have  I seen  him  and  the  seventh 
will  be  Sunday,  you  bet.  He  takes  his  long 
rest  then.”  And  thus  on  the  very  ground 
where  it  all  fell  out,  to  the  noise  of  the  night 
wind  and  the  yapping  of  the  Coyote,  interrupted 
sometimes  by  the  deep-drawn  howl  of  the  hero 
himself,  I heard  chapters  of  this  history  which, 


Badlands  Billy 

with  others  gleaned  in  many  fields,  gave  me  the 
story  of  the  Big  Dark  Wolf  of  Sentinel  Butte 


III 

IN  THE  CANON 

Away  back  in  the  spring  of  ’92  a wolver  was 
“ wolving  ” on  the  east  side  of  the  Sentinel 
Mountain  that  so  long  was  a principal  land- 
mark of  the  old  Plainsmen.  Pelts  were  not 
good  in  May,  but  the  bounties  were  high,  five 
dollars  a head,  and  double  for  She-wolves.  As 
he  went  down  to  the  creek  one  morning  he 
saw  a Wolf  coming  to  drink  on  the  other  side. 
He  had  an  easy  shot,  and  on  killing  it  found 
it  was  a nursing  She-wolf.  Evidently  her  fam- 
ily were  somewhere  near,  so  he  spent  two  or 
three  days  searching  in  all  the  likely  places,  but 
found  no  clue  to  the  den. 

Two  weeks  afterward,  as  the  wolver  rode 
down  an  adjoining  canon,  he  saw  a Wolf  come 
out  of  a hole.  The  ever-ready  rifle  flew  up, 
and  another  ten-dollar  scalp  was  added  to  his 
string.  Now  he  dug  into  the  den  and  found 
114 


vm 

Badlands  Billy 

the  litter,  a most  surprising  one  indeed,  for  it 
consisted  not  of  the  usual  five  or  six  Wolf-pups, 
but  of  eleven,  and  these,  strange  to  say,  were 
of  two  sizes,  five  of  them  larger  and  older  than 
the  other  six.  Here  were  two  distinct  families 
with  one  mother,  and  as  he  added  their  scalps 
to  his  string  of  trophies  the  truth  dawned  on 
the  hunter.  One  lot  was  surely  the  family  of 
the  She-wolf  he  had  killed  two  weeks  before. 
The  case  was  clear : the  little  ones  awaiting  the 
mother  that  was  never  to  come,  had  whined 
piteously  and  more  loudly  as  their  hunger- 
pangs  increased  ; the  other  mother  passing  had 
heard  the  Cubs ; her  heart  was  tender  now,  her 
own  little  ones  had  so  recently  come,  and  she 
cared  for  the  orphans,  carried  them  to  her  own 
den,  and  was  providing  for  the  double  family 
when  the  rifleman  had  cut  the  gentle  chapter 
short. 

Many  a wolver  has  dug  into  a wolf-den  to 
find  nothing.  The  old  Wolves  or  possibly  the 
Cubs  themselves  often  dig  little  side  pockets 
and  off  galleries,  and  when  an  enemy  is  break- 
ing in  they  hide  in  these.  The  loose  earth 
conceals  the  small  pocket  and  thus  the  Cubs 

“5 


Mt 


,:b' 


Badlands  Billy 


escape.  When  the  wolver  retired  with  his 
scalps  he  did  not  know  that  the  biggest  of  all 
the  Cubs,  was  still  in  the  den,  and  even  had  he 
waited  about  for  two  hours,  he  might  have 
been  no  wiser.  Three  hours  later  the  sun 
went  down  and  there  was  a slight  scratching 
afar  in  the  hole  ; first  two  little  gray  paws,  then 
a small  black  nose  appeared  in  a soft  sand-pile 
to  one  side  of  the  den.  At  length  the  Cub  came 
forth  from  his  hiding.  He  had  been  frightened 
by  the  attack  on  the  den ; now  he  was  per- 
plexed by  its  condition. 

It  was  thrice  as  large  as  it  had  been  and  open 
at  the  top  now.  Lying  near  were  things  that 
smelled  like  his  brothers  and  sisters,  but  they 
were  repellent  to  him.  He  was  filled  with  fear 
as  he  sniffed  at  them,  and  sneaked  aside  into  a 
thicket  of  grass,  as  a Night-hawk  boomed  over 
his  head.  He  crouched  all  night  in  that 
thicket.  He  did  not  dare  to  go  near  the  den, 
and  knew  not  where  else  he  could  go.  The 
next  morning  when  two  Vultures  came  swoop- 
ing down  on  the  bodies,  the  Wolf-cub  ran  off 
in  the  thicket,  and  seeking  its  deepest  cover, 
was  led  down  a ravine  to  a wide  valley.  Sud- 
1 16 


Badlands  Billy 

denly  there  arose  from  the  grass  a big  She- 
wolf,  like  his  mother,  yet  different,  a stranger, 
and  instinctively  the  stray  Cub  sank  to  the 
earth,  as  the  old  Wolf  bounded  on  him.  No 
doubt  the  Cub  had  been  taken  for  some  law- 
ful prey,  but  a whiff  set  that  right.  She  stood 
over  him  for  an  instant.  He  grovelled  at  her 
feet.  The  impulse  to  kill  him  or  at  least  give 
him  a shake  died  away.  He  had  the  smell  of 
a young  Cub.  Her  own  were  about  his  age, 
her  heart  was  touched,  and  when  he  found 
courage  enough  to  put  his  nose  up  and  smell 
her  nose,  she  made  no  angry  demonstration 
except  a short  half-hearted  growl.  Now, 
however,  he  had  smelled  something  that  he 
sorely  needed.  He  had  not  fed  since  the 
day  before,  and  when  the  old  Wolf  turned  to 
leave  him,  he  tumbled  after  her  on  clumsy 
puppy  legs.  Had  the  Mother-wolf  been  far 
from  home  he  must  soon  have  been  left  be- 
hind, but  the  nearest  hollow  was  the  chosen 
place,  and  the  Cub  arrived  at  the  den’s  mouth 
soon  after  the  Mother-wolf. 

A stranger  is  an  enemy,  and  the  old  one 
rushing  forth  to  the  defense,  met  the  Cub  again, 


1 1 7 


Badlands  Billy 

and  again  was  restrained  by  something  that 
rose  in  her  responsive  to  the  smell.  The  Cub 
had  thrown  himself  on  his  back  in  utter  sub- 
mission, but  that  did  not  prevent  his  nose  re- 
porting to  him  the  good  thing  almost  within 
reach.  The  She-wolf  went  into  the  den  and 
curled  herself  about  her  brood ; the  Cub  per- 
sisted in  following.  She  snarled  as  he  ap- 
proached her  own  little  ones,  but  disarming 
wrath  each  time  by  submission  and  his  very 
cubhood,  he  was  presently  among  her  brood, 
helping  himself  to  what  he  wanted  so  greatly, 
and  thus  he  adopted  himself  into  her  family. 
In  a few  days  he  was  so  much  one  of  them 
that  the  mother  forgot  about  his  being  a stran- 
ger. Yet  he  was  different  from  them  in  several 
ways — older  by  two  weeks,  stronger,  and 
marked  on  the  neck  and  shoulders  with  what 
afterward  grew  to  be  a dark  mane. 

Little  Duskymane  could  not  have  been  hap- 
pier in  his  choice  of  a foster-mother,  for  the 
Yellow  Wolf  was  not  only  a good  hunter  with 
a fund  of  cunning,  but  she  was  a Wolf  of  mod- 
ern ideas  as  well.  The  old  tricks  of  tolling  a 
Prairie  Dog,  relaying  for  Antelope,  houghing  a 
1 18 


Billy  finds  a Foster-mother. 


Badlands  Billy 

Bronco  or  flanking  a Steer  she  had  learned 
partly  from  instinct  and  partly  from  the  exam- 
ple of  her  more  experienced  relatives,  when 
they  joined  to  form  the  winter  bands.  But, 
just  as  necessary  nowadays,  she  had  learned 
that  all  men  carry  guns,  that  guns  are  irresisti- 
ble, that  the  only  way  to  avoid  them  is  by  keep- 
ing out  of  sight  while  the  sun  is  up,  and  yet 
that  at  night  they  are  harmless.  She  had  a 
fair  comprehension  of  traps,  indeed  she  had 
been  in  one  once,  and  though  she  left  a toe 
behind  in  pulling  free,  it  was  a toe  most  advan- 
tageously disposed  of ; thenceforth,  though  not 
comprehending  the  nature  of  the  trap,  she  was 
thoroughly  imbued  with  the  horror  of  it,  with 
the  idea  indeed  that  iron  is  dangerous,  and  at 
any  price  it  should  be  avoided. 

On  one  occasion,  when  she  and  five  others 
were  planning  to  raid  a Sheep  yard,  she  held 
back  at  the  last  minute  because  some  new- 
strung  wires  appeared.  The  others  rushed  in 
to  find  the  Sheep  beyond  their  reach,  them- 
selves in  a death-trap. 

Thus  she  had  learned  the  newer  dangers, 
and  while  it  is  unlikely  that  she  had  any  clear 


I 2 I 


Badlands  Billy 

mental  conception  of  them  she  had  acquired  a 
wholesome  distrust  of  all  things  strange,  and  a 
horror  of  one  or  two  in  particular  that  proved 
her  lasting  safeguard.  Each  year  she  raised 
her  brood  successfully  and  the  number  of  Yel- 
low Wolves  increased  in  the  country.  Guns, 
traps,  men  and  the  new  animals  they  brought 
had  been  learned,  but  there  was  yet  another 
lesson  before  her — a terrible  one  indeed. 

About  the  time  Dusky  mane’s  brothers  were 
a month  old  his  foster-mother  returned  in  a 
strange  condition.  She  was  frothing  at  the 
mouth,  her  legs  trembled,  and  she  fell  in  a con- 
vulsion near  the  doorway  of  the  den,  but  recov- 
ering, she  came  in.  Her  jaws  quivered,  her 
teeth  rattled  a little  as  she  tried  to  lick  the 
little  ones ; she  seized  her  own  front  leg  and 
bit  it  so  as  not  to  bite  them,  but  at  length  she 
grew  quieter  and  calmer.  The  Cubs  had  re- 
treated  in  fear  to  a far  pocket,  but  now  they 
^ returned  and  crowded  about  her  to  seek  their 
57  usual  food.  The  mother  recovered,  but  was 
/ very  ill  for  two  or  three  days,  and  those  days 
with  the  poison  in  her  system  worked  disaster 
for  the  brood.  They  were  terribly  sick ; only 


Badlands  Billy 

the  strongest  could  survive,  and  when  the  trial 
of  strength  was  over,  the  den  contained  only 
the  old  one  and  the  Black-maned  Cub,  the 
one  she  had  adopted.  Thus  little  Duskymane 
became  her  sole  charge ; all  her  strength  was 
devoted  to  feeding  him,  and  he  thrived  apace. 

Wolves  are  quick  to  learn  certain  things. 
The  reactions  of  smell  are  the  greatest  that  a 
Wolf  can  feel,  and  thenceforth  both  Cub  and 
foster-mother  experienced  a quick,  unreasoning 
sense  of  fear  and  hate  the  moment  the  smell  of 
strychnine  reached  them. 


IV 

THE  RUDIMENTS  OF  WOLF  TRAINING 

With  the  sustenance  of  seven  at  his  service 
the  little  Wolf  had  every  reason  to  grow,  and 
when  in  the  autumn  he  began  to  follow  his 
mother  on  her  hunting  trips  he  was  as  tall  as 
she  was.  Now  a change  of  region  was  forced 
on  them,  for  numbers  of  little  Wolves  were 
growing  up.  Sentinel  Butte,  the  rocky  fastness 
of  the  plains,  was  claimed  by  many  that  were 


123 


Badlands  Billy 

big  and  strong ; the  weaker  must  move  out,  and 
with  them  Yellow  Wolf  and  the  Dusky  Cub. 

Wolves  have  no  language  in  the  sense  that 
man  has ; their  vocabulary  is  probably  limited 
to  a dozen  howls,  barks,  and  grunts  expressing 
the  simplest  emotions ; but  they  have  several 
other  modes  of  conveying  ideas,  and  one  very 
special  method  of  spreading  information  — the 
Wolf-telephone.  Scattered  over  their  range 
are  a number  of  recognized  “ centrals.”  Some- 
times these  are  stones,  sometimes  the  angle  of 
cross-trails,  sometimes  a Buffalo-skull— indeed, 
any  conspicuous  object  near  a main  trail  is 
used.  A Wolf  calling  here,  as  a Dog  does  at  a 
telegraph  post,  or  a Muskrat  at  a certain  mud- 
pie  point,  leaves  his  body-scent  and  learns 
what  other  visitors  have  been  there  recently  to 
do  the  same.  He  learns  also  whence  they 
came  and  where  they  went,  as  well  as  some- 
thing about  their  condition,  whether  hunted, 
hungry,  gorged,  or  sick.  By  this  system  of 
registration  a Wolf  knows  where  his  friends, 
as  well  as  his  foes,  are  to  be  found.  And 
Duskymane,  following  after  the  Yellow  Wolf, 
was  taught  the  places  and  uses  of  the  many 


1 24 


Badlands  Billy 


signal-stations  without  any  conscious  attempt 
at  teaching  on  the  part  of  his  foster-mother. 
Example  backed  by  his  native  instincts  was  in- 
deed the  chief  teacher,  but  on  one  occasion  at 
least  there  was  something  very  like  the  effort 
of  a human  parent  to  guard  her  child  in 
danger. 

The  Dark  Cub  had  learned  the  rudiments  of 
Wolf  life : that  the  way  to  fight  Dogs  is  to  run, 
and  to  fight  as  you  run,  never  grapple,  but 
snap,  snap,  snap,  and  make  for  the  rough  coun- 
try where  Horses  cannot  bring  their  riders. 

He  learned  not  to  bother  about  the  Coyotes 
that  follow  for  the  pickings  when  you  hunt; 
you  cannot  catch  them  and  they  do  you  no 
harm. 

He  knew  he  must  not  waste  time  dashing 
after  Birds  that  alight  on  the  ground  ; and  that 
he  must  keep  away  from  the  little  black  and 
white  Animal  with  the  bushy  tail.  It  is  not 
very  good  to  eat,  and  it  is  very,  very  bad  to 
smell. 

Poison!  Oh,  he  never  forgot  that  smell 
from  the  day  when  the  den  was  cleared  of  all 
his  foster-brothers. 


I25 


Badlands  Billy 

He  now  knew  that  the  first  move  in  attack- 
ing Sheep  was  to  scatter  them  ; a lone  Sheep  is 
a foolish  and  easy  prey ; that  the  way  to  round 
up  a band  of  Cattle  was  to  frighten  a Calf. 

He  learned  that  he  must  always  attack  a 
Steer  behind,  a Sheep  in  front,  and  a Horse  in 
the  middle,  that  is,  on  the  flank,  and  never,  never 
attack  a man  at  all,  never  even  face  him.  But 
an  important  lesson  was  added  to  these,  one  in 
which  the  mother  consciously  taught  him  of  a 
secret  foe. 

V 

THE  LESSON  ON  TRAPS 

A Calf  had  died  in  branding-time  and  now, 
two  weeks  later,  was  in  its  best  state  for  perfect 
taste,  not  too  fresh,  not  over-ripe — that  is,  in  a 
Wolfs  opinion— -and  the  wind  carried  this  in- 
formation afar.  The  Yellow  Wolf  and  Dusky- 
mane  were  out  for  supper,  though  not  yet 
knowing  where,  when  the  tidings  of  veal  ar- 
rived, and  they  trotted  up  the  wind.  The  Calf 
was  in  an  open  place,  and  plain  to  be  seen  in 
the  moonlight.  A Dog  would  have  trotted 
1 26 


Badlands  Billy 

right  up  to  the  carcass,  an  old-time  Wolf  might 
have  done  so,  but  constant  war  had  developed 
constant  vigilance  in  the  Yellow  Wolf,  and 
trusting  nothing  and  no  one  but  her  nose,  she 
slacked  her  speed  to  a walk.  On  coming  in 
easy  view  she  stopped,  and  for  long  swung  her 
nose,  submitting  the  wind  to  the  closest  possi- 
ble chemical  analysis.  She  tried  it  with  her  finest 
tests,  blew  all  the  membranes  clean  again  and 
tried  it  once  more ; and  this  was  the  report  of 
the  trusty  nostrils,  yes,  the  unanimous  report. 
First,  rich  and  racy  smell  of  Calf,  seventy  per 
cent. ; smells  of  grass,  bugs,  wood,  flowers, 
trees,  sand,  and  other  uninteresting  negations, 
fifteen  per  cent. ; smell  of  her  Cub  and  herself, 
positive  but  ignorable,  ten  per  cent. ; smell  of 
human  tracks,  two  per  cent. ; smell  of  smoke, 
one  per  cent. ; of  sweaty  leather  smell,  one  per 
cent. ; of  human  body-scent  (not  discernible  in 
some  samples),  one-half  per  cent. ; smell  of  iron, 
a trace. 

The  old  Wolf  crouched  a little  but  sniffed 
hard  with  swinging  nose;  the  young  Wolf 
imitatively  did  the  same.  She  backed  off  to  a 
greater  distance ; the  Cub  stood.  She  gave  a 
127 


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7° 


AT 


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Z 


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x 


A fr*ce 


to  0 


Badlands  Billy 

low  whine  ; he  followed  unwillingly.  She  circled 
around  the  tempting  carcass ; a new  smell  was 
recorded  — Coyote  trail-scent,  soon  followed  by 
Coyote  body-scent.  Yes,  there  they  were 
sneaking  along  a near  ridge,  and  now  as  she 
passed  to  one  side  the  samples  changed,  the 
wind  had  lost  nearly  every  trace  of  Calf ; mis- 
cellaneous, commonplace,  and  uninteresting 
smells  were  there  instead.  The  human  track- 
scent  was  as  before,  the  trace  of  leather  was 
gone,  but  fully  one-half  per  cent,  of  iron-odor, 
and  body-smell  of  man  raised  to  nearly  two 
per  cent. 

Fully  alarmed,  she  conveyed  her  fear  to  the 
Cub,  by  her  rigid  pose,  her  air  intent,  and  her 
slightly  bristling  mane. 

She  continued  her  round.  At  one  time  on 
a high  place  the  human  body-scent  was  doubly 
strong,  then  as  she  dropped  it  faded.  Then 
the  wind  brought  the  full  calf-odor  with  sev- 
eral track-scents  of  Coyotes  and  sundry  Birds. 
Her  suspicions  were  lulling  as  in  a small- 
ing  circle  she  neared  the  tempting  feast  from 
the  windward  side.  She  had  even  advanced 
straight  toward  it  for  a few  steps  when  the  sweaty 
128 


Badlands  Billy- 

leather  sang  loud  and  strong  again,  and  smoke 
and  iron  mingled  like  two  strands  of  a parti- 
colored yarn.  Centring  all  her  attention  on 
this,  she  advanced  within  two  leaps  of  the  Calf. 
There  on  the  ground  was  a scrap  of  leather, 
telling  also  of  a human  touch,  close  at  hand 
the  Calf,  and  now  the  iron  and  smoke  on 
the  full  vast  smell  of  Calf  were  like  a snake 
trail  across  the  trail  of  a whole  Beef  herd.  It 
was  so  slight  that  the  Cub,  with  the  appetite 
and  impatience  of  youth,  pressed  up  against  his 
mother’s  shoulder  to  go  past  and  eat  without 
delay.  She  seized  him  by  the  neck  and  flung 
him  back.  A stone  struck  by  his  feet  rolled 
forward  and  stopped  with  a peculiar  clink. 
The  danger  smell  was  greatly  increased  at  this, 
and  the  Yellow  Wolf  backed  slowly  from  the 
feast,  the  Cub  unwillingly  following. 

As  he  looked  wistfully  he  saw  the  Coyotes 
drawing  nearer,  mindful  chiefly  to  avoid  the 
Wolves.  He  watched  their  really  cautious  ad- 
vance ; it  seemed  like  heedless  rushing  com- 
pared with  his  mother’s  approach.  The  Calf 
smell  rolled  forth  in  exquisite  and  overpower- 
ing excellence  now,  for  they  were  tearing  the 


1 29 


Badlands  Billy 

meat,  when  a sharp  clank  was  heard  and  a yelp 
from  a Coyote.  At  the  same  time  the  quiet 
night  was  shocked  with  a roar  and  a flash  of 
fire.  Heavy  shots  spattered  Calf  and  Coyotes, 
and  yelping  like  beaten  Dogs  they  scattered, 
excepting  one  that  was  killed  and  a second 
struggling  in  the  trap  set  here  by  the  ever- 
active  wolvers.  The  air  was  charged  with  the 
hateful  smells  redoubled  now,  and  horrid 
smells  additional.  The  Yellow  Wolf  glided 
down  a hollow  and  led  her  Cub  away  in  flight, 
but,  as  they  went,  they  saw  a man  rush  from 
the  bank  near  where  the  mother’s  nose  had 
warned  her  of  the  human  scent.  They  saw 
him  kill  the  caught  Coyote  and  set  the  traps 
for  more. 

VI 

THE  BEGUILING  OF  THE  YELLOW  WOLF 

The  life  game  is  a hard  game,  for  we  may 
win  ten  thousand  times,  and  if  we  fail  but  once 
our  gain  is  gone.  How  many  hundred  times 
had  the  Yellow  Wolf  scorned  the  traps;  how 
many  Cubs  she  had  trained  to  do  the  same  ! 


130 


Badlands  Billy 

Of  all  the  dangers  to  her  life  she  best  knew 
traps. 

October  had  come ; the  Cub  was  now  much 
taller  than  the  mother.  The  wolver  had  seen 
them  once — a Yellow  Wolf  followed  by  an- 
other, whose  long,  awkward  legs,  big,  soft  feet, 
thin  neck,  and  skimpy  tail  proclaimed  him  this 
year’s  Cub.  The  record  of  the  dust  and  sand 
said  that  the  old  one  had  lost  a right  front  toe, 
and  that  the  young  one  was  of  giant  size. 

It  was  the  wolver  that  thought  to  turn  the 
carcass  of  the  Calf  to  profit,  but  he  was  disap- 
pointed in  getting  Coyotes  instead  of  Wolves. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  the  trapping  season, 
for  this  month  fur  is  prime.  A young  trapper 
often  fastens  the  bait  on  the  trap ; an  experi- 
enced one  does  not.  A good  trapper  will  even 
put  the  bait  at  one  place  and  the  trap  ten  or 
twenty  feet  away,  but  at  a spot  that  the 
Wolf  is  likely  to  cross  in  circling.  A favorite 
plan  is  to  hide  three  or  four  traps  around  an 
open  place,  and  scatter  some  scraps  of  meat  in 
the  middle.  The  traps  are  buried  out  of  sight 
after  being  smoked  to  hide  the  taint  of  hands 
and  iron.  Sometimes  no  bait  is  used  except  a 


i33 


Badlands  Billy- 

little  piece  of  cotton  or  a tuft  of  feathers  that 
may  catch  the  Wolfs  eye  or  pique  its  curiosity 
and  tempt  it  to  circle  on  the  fateful,  treacher- 
ous ground.  A good  trapper  varies  his  meth- 
ods continually  so  that  the  Wolves  cannot  learn 
his  ways.  Their  only  safeguards  are  perpetual 
vigilance  and  distrust  of  all  smells  that  are 
known  to  be  of  man. 

The  wolver,  with  a load  of  the  strongest 
steel  traps,  had  begun  his  autumn  work  on  the 
1 Cottonwood.’ 

An  old  Buffalo  trail  crossing  the  river  fol- 
lowed a little  draw  that  climbed  the  hills  to 
the  level  upland.  All  animals  use  these  trails, 
Wolves  and  Foxes  as  well  as  Cattle  and  Deer: 
they  are  the  main  thoroughfares.  A cotton- 
wood stump  not  far  from  where  it  plunged  to 
the  gravelly  stream  was  marked  with  Wolf 
signs  that  told  the  wolver  of  its  use.  Here 
was  an  excellent  place  for  traps,  not  on  the 
trail,  for  Cattle  were  here  in  numbers,  but 
twenty  yards  away  on  a level,  sandy  spot  he 
set  four  traps  in  a twelve-foot  square.  Near 
each  he  scattered  two  or  three  scraps  of  meat ; 
three  or  four  white  feathers  on  a spear  of  grass 


134 


Badlands  Billy 

in  the  middle  completed  the  setting.  No  hu- 
man eye,  few  animal  noses,  could  have  detected 
the  hidden  danger  of  that  sandy  ground,  when 
the  sun  and  wind  and  the  sand  itself  had  dissi- 
pated the  man-track  taint. 

The  Yellow  Wolf  had  seen  and  passed,  and 
taught  her  giant  son  to  pass,  such  traps  a thou- 
sand times  before. 

The  Cattle  came  to  water  in  the  heat  of  the 
day.  They  strung  down  the  Buffalo  path  as 
once  the  Buffalo  did.  The  little  Vesper-birds 
flitted  before  them,  the  Cowbirds  rode  on  them, 
and  the  Prairie-dogs  chattered  at  them,  just  as 
they  once  did  at  the  Buffalo. 

Down  from  the  gray-green  mesa  with  its 
green-gray  rocks,  they  marched  with  imposing 
solemnity,  importance,  and  directness  of  pur- 
pose. Some  frolicsome  Calves,  playing  along- 
side the  trail,  grew  sober  and  walked  behind 
their  mothers  as  the  river  flat  was  reached. 
The  old  Cow  that  headed  the  procession  sniffed 
suspiciously  as  she  passed  the  “trap  set,”  but 
it  was  far  away,  otherwise  she  would  have 
pawed  and  bellowed  over  the  scraps  of  bloody 
beef  till  every  trap  was  sprung  and  harmless. 


Badlands  Billy 


liUjJilillil  »»*>*««<« 


But  she  led  to  the  river.  After  all  had 
drunk  their  fill  they  lay  down  on  the  nearest 
bank  till  late  afternoon.  Then  their  unheard 
dinner-gong  aroused  them,  and  started  them 
on  the  backward  march  to  where  the  richest 
pastures  grew. 

One  or  two  small  birds  had  picked  at  the 
scraps  of  meat,  some  blue-bottle  flies  buzzed 
about,  but  the  sinking  sun  saw  the  sandy  mask 
untouched. 

A brown  Marsh  Hawk  came  skimming  over 
the  river  flat  as  the  sun  began  his  color  play. 
Blackbirds  dashed  into  thickets,  and  easily 
avoided  his  clumsy  pounce.  It  was  too  early 
for  the  Mice,  but,  as  he  skimmed  the  ground, 
his  keen  eye  caught  the  flutter  of  feathers  by 
the  trap  and  turned  his  flight.  The  feathers  in 
their  uninteresting  emptiness  were  exposed  be- 
fore he  was  near,  but  now  he  saw  the  scraps 
of  meat.  Guileless  of  cunning,  he  alighted 
and  was  devouring  a second  lump  when — 
clank— the  dust  was  flirted  high  and  the 
Marsh  Hawk  was  held  by  his  toes,  struggling 
vainly  in  the  jaws  of  a powerful  wolf-trap. 
He  was  not  much  hurt.  His  ample  wings  win- 
136 


Badlands  Billy 

nowed  from  time  to  time,  in  efforts  to  be  free, 
but  he  was  helpless,  even  as  a Sparrow  might 
be  in  a rat-trap,  and  when  the  sun  had  played 
his  fierce  chromatic  scale,  his  swan-song  sung, 
and  died  as  he  dies  only  in  the  blazing  west, 
and  the  shades  had  fallen  on  the  melodramatic 
scene  of  the  Mouse  in  the  elephant-trap,  there 
was  a deep,  rich  sound  on  the  high  flat  butte, 
answered  by  another,  neither  very  long,  neither 
repeated,  and  both  instinctive  rather  than  nec- 
essary. One  was  the  muster-call  of  an  ordinary 
Wolf,  the  other  the  answer  of  a very  big  male, 
not  a pair  in  this  case,  but  mother  and  son — 
Yellow  Wolf  and  Dusky  mane.  They  came  trot- 
ting together  down  the  Buffalo  trail.  They 
paused  at  the  telephone  box  on  the  hill  and 
again  at  the  old  cottonwood  root,  and  were 
making  for  the  river  when  the  Hawk  in  the 
trap  fluttered  his  wings.  The  old  Wolf  turned 
toward  him,— a wounded  bird  on  the  ground 
surely,  and  she  rushed  forward.  Sun  and  sand 
soon  burn  all  trail-scents  ; there  was  nothing  to 
warn  her.  She  sprang  on  the  flopping  bird 
and  a chop  of  her  jaws  ended  his  troubles,  but 
a horrid  sound— the  gritting  of  her  teeth  on 


*37 


Badlands  Billy 

steel — told  her  of  peril.  She  dropped  the  Hawk 
and  sprang  backward  from  the  dangerous 
ground,  but  landed  in  the  second  trap.  High 
on  her  foot  its  death-grip  closed,  and  leaping 
with  all  her  strength,  to  escape,  she  set  her 
fore  foot  in  another  of  the  lurking  grips  of 
steel.  Never  had  a trap  been  so  baited  before. 
Never  was  she  so  unsuspicious.  Never  was 
catch  more  sure.  Fear  and  fury  filled  the  old 
Wolf’s  heart;  she  tugged  and  strained,  she 
chewed  the  chains,  she  snarled  and  foamed. 
One  trap  with  its  buried  log,  she  might  have 
dragged ; with  two,  she  was  helpless.  Strug- 
gle as  she  might,  it  only  worked  those  relent- 
less jaws  more  deeply  into  her  feet.  She 
snapped  wildly  at  the  air;  she  tore  the  dead 
Hawk  into  shreds ; she  roared  the  short,  bark- 
ing roar  of  a crazy  Wolf.  She  bit  at  the 
traps,  at  her  cub,  at  herself.  She  tore  her  legs 
that  were  held ; she  gnawed  in  frenzy  at  her 
flank,  she  chopped  off  her  tail  in  her  mad- 
ness ; she  splintered  all  her  teeth  on  the  steel, 
and  filled  her  bleeding,  foaming  jaws  with  clay 
and  sand. 

She  struggled  till  she  fell,  and  writhed  about 


*38 


Badlands  Billy 

or  lay  like  dead,  till  strong  enough  to  rise  and 
grind  the  chains  again  with  her  teeth. 

And  so  the  night  passed  by. 

And  Duskymane?  Where  was  he?  The 
feeling  of  the  time  when  his  foster-mother  had 
come  home  poisoned,  now  returned  ; but  he  was 
even  more  afraid  of  her.  She  seemed  filled 
with  fighting  hate.  He  held  away  and  whined 
a little ; he  slunk  off  and  came  back  when  she 
lay  still,  only  to  retreat  again,  as  she  sprang 
forward,  raging  at  him,  and  then  renewed  her 
efforts  at  the  traps.  He  did  not  understand  it, 
but  he  knew  this  much,  she  was  in  terrible 
trouble,  and  the  cause  seemed  to  be  the  same 
as  that  which  had  scared  them  the  night  they 
had  ventured  near  the  Calf. 

Duskymane  hung  about  all  night,  fearing  to 
go  near,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  and  helpless 
as  his  mother. 

At  dawn  the  next  day  a sheepherder  seeking 
lost  Sheep  discovered  her  from  a neighboring 
hill.  A signal  mirror  called  the  wolver  from 
his  camp.  Duskymane  saw  the  new  danger. 
He  was  a mere  Cub,  though  so  tall;  he  could 
not  face  the  man,  and  fled  at  his  approach. 


139 


Badlands  Billy 

The  wolver  rode  up  to  the  sorry,  tattered, 
bleeding  She-wolf  in  the  trap.  He  raised  his 
rifle  and  soon  the  struggling  stopped. 

The  wolver  read  the  trail  and  the  signs  about, 
and  remembering  those  he  had  read  before,  he 
divined  that  this  was  the  Wolf  with  the  great 
Cub — the  She-wolf  of  Sentinel  Butte. 

Duskymane  heard  the  “ crack  ” as  he  scurried 
off  into  cover.  He  could  scarcely  know  what 
it  meant,  but  he  never  saw  his  kind  old  foster- 
mother  again.  Thenceforth  he  must  face  the 
world  alone. 


VII 

THE  YOUNG  WOLF  WINS  A PLACE  AND  FAME 

Instinct  is  no  doubt  a Wolf’s  first  and  best 
guide,  but  gifted  parents  are  a great  start  in 
life.  The  dusky-maned  cub  had  had  a mother 
of  rare  excellence  and  he  reaped  the  advantage 
of  all  her  cleverness.  He  had  inherited  an  exqui- 
site nose  and  had  absolute  confidence  in  its  ad- 
monitions. Mankind  has  difficulty  in  recog- 
nizing the  power  of  nostrils.  A Gray-wolf  can 
glance  over  the  morning  wind  as  a man  does 


140 


Badlands  Billy- 


over  his  newspaper,  and  get  all  the  latest  news. 
He  can  swing  over  the  ground  and  have  the 
minutest  information  of  every  living  creature 
that  has  walked  there  within  many  hours.  His 
nose  even  tells  which  way  it  ran,  and  in  a 
word  renders  a statement  of  every  animal  that 
recently  crossed  his  trail,  whence  it  came,  and 
whither  it  went. 

That  power  had  Duskymane  in  the  high- 
est degree ; his  broad,  moist  nose  was  evi- 
dence of  it  to  all  who  are  judges  of  such 
things.  Added  to  this,  his  frame  was  of  un- 
usual power  and  endurance,  and  last,  he  had 
early  learned  a deep  distrust  of  everything 
strange,  and,  call  it  what  we  will,  shyness, 
wariness  or  suspicion,  it  was  worth  more  to  him 
than  all  his  cleverness.  It  was  this  as  much 
as  his  physical  powers  that  made  a success  of 
his  life.  Might  is  right  in  wolf-land,  and 
Duskymane  and  his  mother  had  been  driven 
out  of  Sentinel  Butte.  But  it  was  a very  de- 
lectable land  and  he  kept  drifting  back  to  his 
native  mountain.  One  or  two  big  Wolves  there 
resented  his  coming.  They  drove  him  off  sev- 
eral times,  yet  each  time  he  returned  he  was 


141 


Badlands  Billy 


better  able  to  face  them ; and  before  he  was 
eighteen  months  old  he  had  defeated  all  rivals 
and  established  himself  again  on  his  native 
ground ; where  he  lived  like  a robber  baron, 
levying  tribute  on  the  rich  lands  about  him  and 
finding  safety  in  the  rocky  fastness. 

Wolver  Ryder  often  hunted  in  that  country, 
and  before  long,  he  came  across  a five-and-one- 
half-inch  track,  the  foot-print  of  a giant  Wolf. 
Roughly  reckoned,  twenty  to  twenty-five 
pounds  of  weight  or  six  inches  of  stature  is  a fair 
allowance  for  each  inch  of  a Wolf’s  foot;  this 
Wolf  therefore  stood  thirty-three  inches  at  the 
shoulder  and  weighed  about  one  hundred  and 
forty  pounds,  by  far  the  largest  Wolf  he  had  ever 
met.  King  had  lived  in  Goat  country,  and  now 
in  Goat  language  he  exclaimed:  “You  bet, 
ain’t  that  an  old  Billy?”  Thus  by  trivial 
chance  it  was  that  Duskymane  was  known  to 
his  foe,  as  ‘Badlands  Billy.’ 

Ryder  was  familiar  with  the  muster-call  of 
the  Wolves,  the  long,  smooth  cry,  but  Billy’s 
had  a singular  feature,  a slurring  that  was  al- 
ways distinctive.  Ryder  had  heard  this  before, 
in  the  Cottonwood  Canon,  and  when  at  length 


© - w - w - W 


142 


Badlands  Bifly 

he  got  a sight  of  the  big  Wolf  with  the  black 
mane,  it  struck  him  that  this  was  also  the  Cub 
of  the  old  Yellow  fury  that  he  had  trapped. 

These  were  among  the  things  he  told  me  as 
we  sat  by  the  fire  at  night.  I knew  of  the 
early  days  when  any  one  could  trap  or  poison 
Wolves,  of  the  passing  of  those  days,  with  the 
passing  of  the  simple  Wolves ; of  the  new  race 
of  Wolves  with  new  cunning  that  were  defying 
the  methods  of  the  ranchmen,  and  increasing 
steadily  in  numbers.  Now  the  wolver  told  me 
of  the  various  ventures  that  Penroof  had  made 
with  different  kinds  of  Hounds:  of  Foxhounds 
too  thin-skinned  to  fight ; of  Greyhounds  that 
were  useless  when  the  animal  was  out  of  sight ; 
of  Danes  too  heavy  for  the  rough  country,  and, 
last,  of  the  composite  pack  with  some  of  all 
kinds,  including  at  times  a Bull-terrier  to  lead 
them  in  the  final  fight. 

He  told  of  hunts  after  Coyotes,  which  usually 
were  successful  because  the  Coyotes  sought  the 
plains,  and  were  easily  caught  by  the  Grey- 
hounds. He  told  of  killing  some  small  Gray- 
wolves  with  this  very  pack,  usually  at  the  cost 
of  the  one  that  led  them ; but  above  all  he 


143 


Badlands  Billy 

dwelt  on  the  wonderful  prowess  of  “that  thar 
cussed  old  Black  Wolf  of  Sentinel  Butte,”  and 
related  the  many  attempts  to  run  him  down  or 
corner  him — an  unbroken  array  of  failures.  For 
the  big  Wolf,  with  exasperating  persistence,  con- 
tinued to  live  on  the  finest  stock  of  the  Penroof 
brand,  and  each  year  was  teaching  more  Wolves 
how  to  do  the  same  with  perfect  impunity. 

I listened  even  as  gold-hunters  listen  to 
stories  of  treasure  trove,  for  these  were  the 
things  of  my  world.  These  things  indeed  were 
uppermost  in  all  our  minds,  for  the  Penroof 
pack  was  lying  around  our  camp-fire  now. 
We  were  out  after  Badlands  Billy. 

VIII 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  NIGHT  AND  THE  BIG 
TRACK  IN  THE  MORNING 

One  night  late  in  September  after  the  last 
streak  of  light  was  gone  from  the  west  and  the 
Coyotes  had  begun  their  yapping  chorus,  a 
deep,  booming  sound  was  heard.  King  took 
out  his  pipe,  turned  his  head  and  said  : “That ’s 


144 


“ ‘ That ’s  him.’  ” 


Badlands  Billy 

him— that  ’s  old  Billy.  He  ’s  been  watching 
us  all  day  from  some  high  place,  and  now  when 
the  guns  are  useless  he  ’s  here  to  have  a little 
fun  with  us.” 

Two  or  three  Dogs  arose,  with  bristling 
manes,  for  they  clearly  recognized  that  this 
was  no  Coyote.  They  rushed  out  into  the  night, 
but  did  not  go  far;  their  brawling  sounds 
were  suddenly  varied  by  loud  yelps,  and  they 
came  running  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  fire. 
One  was  so  badly  cut  in  the  shoulder  that  he 
was  useless  for  the  rest  of  the  hunt.  Another 
was  hurt  in  the  flank — it  seemed  the  less  seri- 
ous wound,  and  yet  next  morning  the  hunters 
buried  that  second  Dog. 

The  men  were  furious.  They  vowed  speedy 
vengeance,  and  at  dawn  were  off  on  the  trail. 
The  Coyotes  yelped  their  dawning  song,  but 
they  melted  into  the  hills»when  the  light  was 
strong.  The  hunters  searched  about  for  the 
big  Wolf’s  track,  hoping  that  the  Hounds  would 
be  able  to  take  it  up  and  find  him,  but  they 
either  could  not  or  would  not. 

They  found  a Coyote,  however,  and  within 
a few  hundred  yards  they  killed  him.  It  was  a 


!47 


Badlands  Billy 


victory,  I suppose,  for  Coyotes  kill  Calves  and 
Sheep,  but  somehow  I felt  the  common  thought 
of  all : “ Mighty  brave  Dogs  for  a little  Coyote, 
but  they  could  not  face  the  big  Wolf  last 
night.” 

Young  Penroof,  as  though  in  answer  to  one 
of  the  unput  questions,  said : 

“ Say,  boys,  I believe  old  Billy  had  a hull 
bunch  of  Wolves  with  him  last  night.” 

“Did  n’t  see  but  one  track,”  said  King 
gruffly. 

In  this  way  the  whole  of  October  slipped 
by ; all  day  hard  riding  after  doubtful  trails, 
following  the  Dogs,  who  either  could  not  keep 
the  big  trail  or  feared  to  do  so,  and  again  and 
again  we  had  news  of  damage  done  by  the 
Wolf ; sometimes  a cowboy  would  report  it  to 
us ; and  sometimes  we  found  the  carcasses  our- 
selves. A few  of  these  we  poisoned,  though 
it  is  considered  a very  dangerous  thing  to  do 
while  running  Dogs.  The  end  of  the  month 
found  us  a weather-beaten,  dispirited  lot  of 
men,  with  a worn-out  lot  of  Horses,  and  a foot- 
sore pack,  reduced  in  numbers  from  ten  to 
seven.  So  far  we  had  killed  only  one  Gray- 


Badlands  Billy 

wolf  and  three  Coyotes ; Badlands  Billy  had 
killed  at  least  a dozen  Cows  and  Dogs  at  fifty 
dollars  a head.  Some  of  the  boys  decided  to 
give  it  up  and  go  home,  so  King  took  advantage 
of  their  going,  to  send  a letter,  asking  for  reen- 
forcements including  all  the  spare  Dogs  at  the 
ranch. 

During  the  two  days’  wait  we  rested  our 
Horses,  shot  some  game,  and  prepared  for  a 
harder  hunt.  Late  on  the  second  day  the  new 
Dogs  arrived — eight  beauties — and  raised  the 
working  pack  to  fifteen. 

The  weather  now  turned  much  cooler,  and 
in  the  morning,  to  the  joy  of  the  wolvers,  the 
ground  was  white  with  snow.  This  surely 
meant  success.  With  cool  weather  for  the  Dogs 
and  Horses  to  run ; with  the  big  Wolf  not  far 
away,  for  he  had  been  heard  the  night  before ; 
and  with  tracking  snow,  so  that  once  found  he 
could  not  bathe  us, — escape  for  him  was  im- 
possible. 

We  were  up  at  dawn,  but  before  we  could 
get  away,  three  men  came  riding  into  camp. 
They  were  the  Penroof  boys  back  again.  The 
change  of  weather  had  changed  their  minds ; 


149 


Badlands  Billy 

they  knew  that  with  snow  we  might  have 
luck. 

“Remember  now,”  said  King,  as  all  were 
mounting,  “ we  don’t  want  any  but  Badlands 
Billy  this  trip.  Get  him  an’  we  kin  bust  up 
the  hull  combination.  It  is  a five-and-a-half- 
inch  track.” 

And  each  measured  off  on  his  quirt  handle, 
or  on  his  glove,  the  exact  five  and  a half  inches 
that  was  to  be  used  in  testing  the  tracks  he 
might  find. 

Not  more  than  an  hour  elapsed  before  we 
got  a signal  from  the  rider  who  had  gone  west- 
ward. One  shot:  that  means  “ attention,”  a 
pause  while  counting  ten,  then  two  shots : that 
means  “ come  on.” 

King  gathered  the  Dogs  and  rode  direct  to 
the  distant  figure  on  the  hill.  All  hearts  beat 
high  with  hope,  and  we  were  not  disappointed. 
Some  small  Wolf  tracks  had  been  found,  but 
here  at  last  was  the  big  track,  nearly  six  inches 
long.  Young  Penroof  wanted  to  yell  and  set 
out  at  full  gallop.  It  was  like  hunting  a Lion ; 
it  was  like  finding  happiness  long  deferred. 
The  hunter  knows  nothing  more  inspiring  than 


Badlands  Billy 

the  clean-cut  line  of  fresh  tracks  that  is  leading 
to  a wonderful  animal,  he  has  long  been  hunt- 
ing in  vain.  How  King’s  eye  gleamed  as  he 
gloated  over  the  sign! 


IX 


RUN  DOWN  AT  LAST 


It  was  the  roughest  of  all  rough  riding.  It 
was  a far  longer  hunt  than  we  had  expected,  and 
was  full  of  little  incidents,  for  that  endless  line 
of  marks  was  a minute  history  of  all  that  the 
big  Wolf  had  done  the  night  before.  Here  he 
had  circled  at  the  telephone  box  and  looked  for 
news ; there  he  had  paused  to  examine  an  old 
skull ; here  he  had  shied  off  and  swung  cau- 
tiously up  wind  to  examine  something  that 
proved  to  be  an  old  tin  can  ; there  at  length  he 
had  mounted  a low  hill  and  sat  down,  probably 
giving  the  muster-howl,  for  two  Wolves  had 
come  to  him  from  different  directions,  and  they 
then  had  descended  to  the  river  flat  where  the 
Cattle  would  seek  shelter  during  the  storm. 
Here  all  three  had  visited  a Buffalo  skull; 


e 


*> 


Badlands  Billy 

there  they  trotted  in  line;  and  yonder  they  sepa- 
rated, going  three  different  ways,  to  meet — yes 
— here — oh,  what  a sight,  a fine  Cow  ripped 
open,  left  dead  and  uneaten.  Not  to  their  taste, 
it  seems,  for  see  ! within  a mile  is  another  killed 
by  them.  Not  six  hours  ago,  they  had  feasted. 
Here  their  trails  scatter  again,  but  not  far,  and 
the  snow  tells  plainly  how  each  had  lain  down 
to  sleep.  The  Hounds’  manes  bristled  as  they 
sniffed  those  places.  King  had  held  the  Dogs 
well  in  hand,  but  now  they  were  greatly  excited. 
We  came  to  a hill  whereon  the  Wolves  had 
turned  and  faced  our  way,  then  fled  at  full 
speed, — so  said  the  trail, — and  now  it  was  clear 
that  they  had  watched  us  from  that  hill,  and 
were  not  far  away. 

The  pack  kept  well  together,  because  the 
Greyhounds,  seeing  no  quarry,  were  merely 
puttering  about  among  the  other  Dogs,  or  run- 
ning back  with  the  Horses.  We  went  as  fast 
as  we  could,  for  the  Wolves  were  speeding.  Up 
mesas  and  down  coulees  we  rode,  sticking 
closely  to  the  Dogs,  though  it  was  the  roughest 
country  that  could  be  picked.  One  gully  after 
another,  an  hour  and  another  hour,  and  still  the 


!52 


Badlands  Billy 

threefold  track  went  bounding  on;  another 
hour  and  no  change,  but  interminable  climbing, 
sliding,  struggling,  through  brush  and  over 
boulders,  guided  by  the  far-away  yelping  of  the 
Dogs. 

Now  the  chase  led  downward  to  the  low 
valley  of  the  river,  where  there  was  scarcely  any 
snow.  Jumping  and  scrambling  down  hills, 
recklessly  leaping  dangerous  gullies  and  slip- 
pery rocks,  we  felt  that  we  could  not  hold  out 
much  longer;  when  on  the  lowest,  dryest  level 
the  pack  split,  some  went  up,  some  went  down, 
and  others  straight  on.  Oh,  how  King  did 
swear!  He  knew  at  once  what  it  meant.  The 
Wolves  had  scattered,  and  so  had  divided  the 
pack.  Three  Dogs  after  a Wolf  would  have 
no  chance,  four  could  not  kill  him,  two  would 
certainly  be  killed.  And  yet  this  was  the  first 
encouraging  sign  we  had  seen,  for  it  meant  that 
the  Wolves  were  hard  pressed.  We  spurred 
ahead  to  stop  the  Dogs,  to  pick  for  them  the 
only  trail.  But  that  was  not  so  easy.  Without 
snow  here  and  with  countless  Dog  tracks,  we 
were  foiled.  All  we  could  do  was  to  let  the 
Dogs  choose,  but  keep  them  to  a single  choice. 

i53 


Badlands  Billy 


\!k 


"'j I ‘ i) 1 1 \|S 


< 1 V \ • 


IK  X 


Away  we  went  as  before,  hoping,  yet  fearing 
that  we  were  not  on  the  right  track.  The  Dogs 
ran  well,  very  fast  indeed.  This  was  a bad  sign, 
King  said,  but  we  could  not  get  sight  of  the  track 
because  the  Dogs  overran  it  before  we  came. 

After  a two-mile  run  the  chase  led  upward 
again  in  snow  country;  the  Wolf  was  sighted, 
but  to  our  disgust,  we  were  on  the  track  of  the 
smallest  one. 

“ I thought  so,”  growled  young  Penroof. 
“ Dogs  was  altogether  too  keen  for  a serious 
proposition.  Kind  o’  surprised  it  ain’t  turned 
out  a Jack-rabbit.” 

Within  another  mile  he  had  turned  to  bay  in 
a willow  thicket.  We  heard  him  howl  the 
long-drawn  howl  for  help,  and  before  we  could 
reach  the  place  King  saw  the  Dogs  recoil  and 
scatter.  A minute  later  there  sped  from  the 
far  side  of  the  thicket  a small  Gray-wolf  and  a 
Black  One  of  very  much  greater  size. 

“ By  golly,  if  he  did  n’t  yell  for  help,  and 
Billy  come  back  to  help  him;  that  ’s  great!” 
exclaimed  the  wolver.  And  my  heart  went  out 
to  the  brave  old  Wolf  that  refused  to  escape  by 
abandoning  his  friend. 


1 54 


Badlands  Billy 

The  next  hour  was  a hard  repetition  of  the 
gully  riding,  but  it  was  on  the  highlands  where 
there  was  snow,  and  when  again  the  pack  was 
split,  we  strained  every  power  and  succeeded  in 
keeping  them  on  the  big  “ five-fifty  track,”  that 
already  was  wearing  for  me  the  glamour  of 
romance. 

Evidently  the  Dogs  preferred  either  of  the 
others,  but  we  got  them  going  at  last.  Another 
half  hour’s  hard  work  and  far  ahead,  as  I rose 
to  a broad  flat  plain,  I had  my  first  glimpse  of 
the  Big  Black  Wolf  of  Sentinel  Butte. 

“Hurrah!  Badlands  Billy!  Hurrah!  Bad- 
lands Billy!  ” I shouted  in  salute,  and  the  others 
took  up  the  cry. 

We  were  on  his  track  at  last,  thanks  to  him- 
self. The  Dogs  joined  in  with  a louder  baying, 
the  Greyhounds  yelped  and  made  straight  for 
him,  and  the  Horses  sniffed  and  sprang  more 
gamely  as  they  caught  the  thrill.  The  only 
silent  one  was  the  black-maned  Wolf,  and  as  I 
marked  his  size  and  power,  and  above  all  his 
long  and  massive  jaws,  I knew  why  the  Dogs 
preferred  some  other  trail. 

With  head  and  tail  low  he  was  bounding  over 


*55 


Badlands  Billy 

the  snow.  His  tongue  was  lolling  long ; plainly 
he  was  hard  pressed.  The  wolvers*  hands  flew 
to  their  revolvers,  though  he  was  three  hundred 
yards  ahead ; they  were  out  for  blood,  not 
sport.  But  an  instant  later  he  had  sunk  from 
view  in  the  nearest  sheltered  canon. 

Now  which  way  would  he  go,  up  or  down 
the  canon?  Up  was  toward  his  mountain, 
down  was  better  cover.  King  and  I thought 
‘‘up,”  so  pressed  westward  along  the  ridge. 
But  the  others  rode  eastward,  watching  for  a 
chance  to  shoot. 

Soon  we  had  ridden  out  of  hearing.  We 
were  wrong — the  Wolf  had  gone  down,  but  we 
heard  no  shooting.  The  canon  was  crossable 
here ; we  reached  the  other  side  and  then 
turned  back  at  a gallop,  scanning  the  snow  for 
a trail,  the  hills  for  a moving  form,  or  the  wind 
for  a sound  of  life. 

“ Squeak,  squeak,”  went  our  saddle  leathers, 
“puff — puff”  our  Horses,  and  their  feet  “ka- 
ka-lump,  ka-ka-lump.” 


J56 


Badlands  Billy 


x 

WHEN  BILLY  WENT  BACK  TO  HIS  MOUNTAIN 

We  were  back  opposite  to  where  the  Wolf 
had  plunged,  but  saw  no  sign.  We  rode  at  an 
easy  gallop,  on  eastward,  a mile,  and  still  on, 
when  King  gasped  out,  “ Look  at  that ! ” A 
dark  spot  was  moving  on  the  snow  ahead.  We 
put  on  speed.  Another  dark  spot  appeared,  and 
another,  but  they  were  not  going  fast.  In  five 
minutes  we  were  near  them,  to  find — three  of 
our  own  Greyhounds.  They  had  lost  sight  of 
the  game,  and  with  that  their  interest  waned. 
Now  they  were  seeking  us.  We  saw  nothing 
there  of  the  chase  or  of  the  other  hunters.  But 
hastening  to  the  next  ridge  we  stumbled  on  the 
trail  we  sought  and  followed  as  hard  as  though 
in  view.  Another  canon  came  in  our  path,  and 
as  we  rode  and  looked  for  a place  to  cross,  a wild 
din  of  Hounds  came  from  its  brushy  depth. 
The  clamor  grew  and  passed  up  the  middle. 

We  raced  along  the  rim,  hoping  to  see  the 
game.  The  Dogs  appeared  near  the  farther 
side,  not  in  a pack,  but  a long,  straggling  line. 


I57 


Badlands  Billy 

In  five  minutes  more  they  rose  to  the  edge, 
and  ahead  of  them  was  the  great  Black  Wolf. 
He  was  loping  as  before,  head  and  tail  low. 
Power  was  plain  in  every  limb,  and  double 
power  in  his  jaws  and  neck,  but  I thought 
his  bounds  were  shorter  now,  and  that  they  had 
lost  their  spring.  The  Dogs  slowly  reached 
the  upper  level,  and  sighting  him  they  broke 
into  a feeble  cry ; they,  too,  were  nearly  spent. 
The  Greyhounds  saw  the  chase,  and  leaving 
us  they  scrambled  down  the  canon  and  up 
the  other  side  at  impetuous  speed  that  would 
surely  break  them  down,  while  we  rode,  vainly 
seeking  means  of  crossing. 

How  the  wolver  raved  to  see  the  pack  lead 
off  in  the  climax  of  the  chase,  and  himself  held 
up  behind.  But  he  rode  and  wrathed  and  still 
rode,  up  to  where  the  canon  dwindled — rough 
land  and  a hard  ride.  As  we  neared  the  great 
flat  mountain,  the  feeble  cry  of  the  pack  was 
heard  again  from  the  south,  then  toward  the 
high  Butte’s  side,  and  just  a trifle  louder  now. 
We  reined  in  on  a hillock  and  scanned  the 
snow.  A moving  speck  appeared,  then  others, 
not  bunched,  but  in  a straggling  train,  and  at 
!58 


Badlands  Billy 

times  there  was  a far  faint  cry.  They  were 
headed  toward  us,  coming  on,  yes!  coming,  but 
so  slowly,  for  not  one  was  really  running  now. 
There  was  the  grim  old  Cow-killer  limping  over 
the  ground,  and  far  behind  a Greyhound,  and 
another,  and  farther  still,  the  other  Dogs  in 
order  of  their  speed,  slowly,  gamely,  dragging 
themselves  on  that  pursuit.  Many  hours  of 
hardest  toil  had  done  their  work.  The  Wolf  had 
vainly  sought  to  fling  them  off.  Now  was  his 
hour  of  doom,  for  he  was  spent ; they  still  had 
some  reserve.  Straight  to  us  for  a time  they 
came,  skirting  the  base  of  the  mountain,  crawl- 
ing. 

We  could  not  cross  to  join  them,  so  held  our 
breath  and  gazed  with  ravenous  eyes.  They 
were  nearer  now,  the  wind  brought  feeble  notes 
from  the  Hounds.  The  big  Wolf  turned  to  the 
steep  ascent,  up  a well-known  trail,  it  seemed, 
for  he  made  no  slip.  My  heart  went  with  him, 
for  he  had  come  back  to  rescue  his  friend,  and 
a momentary  thrill  of  pity  came  over  us  both, 
as  we  saw  him  glance  around  and  drag  himself 
up  the  sloping  way,  to  die  on  his  mountain. 
There  was  no  escape  for  him,  beset  by  fifteen 

x59 


Badlands  Billy- 

Dogs  with  men  to  back  them.  He  was  not 
walking,  but  tottering  upward ; the  Dogs  be- 
hind in  line,  were  now  doing  a little  better, 
were  nearing  him.  We  could  hear  them  gasp- 
ing ; we  scarcely  heard  them  bay  — they  had  no 
breath  for  that ; upward  the  grim  procession 
went,  circling  a spur  of  the  Butte  and  along  a 
ledge  that  climbed  and  narrowed,  then  dropped 
for  a few  yards  to  a shelf  that  reared  above 
the  canon.  The  foremost  Dogs  were  closing, 
fearless  of  a foe  so  nearly  spent. 

Here  in  the  narrowest  place,  where  one 
wrong  step  meant  death,  the  great  Wolf  turned 
and  faced  them.  With  fore-feet  braced,  with 
head  low  and  tail  a little  raised,  his  dusky  mane 
a-bristling,  his  glittering  tusks  laid  bare,  but  ut- 
tering no  sound  that  we  could  hear,  he  faced  the 
crew.  His  legs  were  weak  with  toil,  but  his 
neck,  his  jaws,  and  his  heart  were  strong, 
and — now  all  you  who  love  the  Dogs  had  better 
close  the  book — on — up  and  down — fifteen  to 
one,  they  came,  the  swiftest  first,  and  how  it 
was  done,  the  eye  could  scarcely  see,  but  even 
as  a stream  of  water  pours  on  a rock  to  be 
splashed  in  broken  jets  aside,  that  stream  of 
160 


“ The  Great  Wolf  turned  and  faced  Them.1 


Badlands  Billy 

Dogs  came  pouring  down  the  path,  in  single 
file  perforce,  and  Duskymane  received  them  as 
they  came.  A feeble  spring,  a counter-lunge, 
a gash,  and  “ Fango ’s  down,”  has  lost  his  foot- 
hold and  is  gone.  Dander  and  Coalie  close 
and  try  to  clinch ; a rush,  a heave,  and  they 
are  fallen  from  that  narrow  path.  Blue-spot 
then,  backed  by  mighty  Oscar  and  fearless 
Tige — but  the  Wolf  is  next  the  rock  and  the 
flash  of  combat  clears  to  show  him  there  alone, 
the  big  Dogs  gone ; the  rest  close  in,  the  hind- 
most force  the  foremost  on — down— to  their 
death.  Slash,  chop  and  heave,  from  the  swift- 
est to  the  biggest,  to  the  last,  down  — down — 
he  sent  them  whirling  from  the  ledge  to  the 
gaping  gulch  below,  where  rocks  and  snags  of 
trunks  were  sharp  to  do  their  work. 

In  fifty  seconds  it  was  done.  The  rock  had 
splashed  the  stream  aside — the  Penroof  pack 
was  all  wiped  out ; and  Badlands  Billy  stood 
there,  alone  again  on  his  mountain. 

A moment  he  waited  to  look  for  more  to 
come.  There  were  no  more,  the  pack  was 
dead ; but  waiting  he  got  his  breath,  then  rais- 
ing his  voice  for  the  first  time  in  that  fatal 
163 


Badlands  Billy 

scene,  he  feebly  gave  a long  yell  of  triumph, 
and  scaling  the  next  low  bank,  was  screened 
from  view  in  a canon  of  Sentinel  Butte. 

We  stared  like  men  of  stone.  The  guns  in 
our  hands  were  forgotten.  It  was  all  so  quick, 
so  final.  We  made  no  move  till  the  Wolf  was 
gone.  It  was  not  far  to  the  place : we  went  on 
foot  to  see  if  any  had  escaped.  Not  one  was 
left  alive.  We  could  do  nothing — we  could 
say  nothing. 


© - w-  w - w 


A week  later  we  were  riding  the  upper  trail 
back  of  the  Chimney  Pot,  King  and  I.  “ The 
old  man  is  pretty  sick  of  it,”  he  said.  “ He ’d 
sell  out  if  he  could.  He  don’t  know  what ’s 
the  next  move.” 

The  sun  went  down  beyond  Sentinel  Butte. 
It  was  dusk  as  we  reached  the  turn  that  led  to 
Dumont’s  place,  and  a deep-toned  rolling  howl 
came  from  the  river  flat  below,  followed  by  a 
number  of  higher-pitched  howls  in  answering 
chorus.  We  could  see  nothing,  but  we  lis- 
164 


Badlands  Billy 

tened  hard.  The  song  was  repeated,  the  hunt- 
ing-cry of  the  Wolves.  It  faded,  the  night  was 
stirred  by  another,  the  sharp  bark  and  the  short 
howl,  the  signal  “ close  in”  ; a bellow  came  up, 
very  short,  for  it  was  cut  short. 

And  King  as  he  touched  his  Horse  said 
grimly : “ That ’s  him,  he  is  out  with  the  pack, 
an’  thar  goes  another  Beef.” 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 


THE  BOY 


E was  barely  fifteen,  a lover 
of  sport  and  uncommonly 
keen,  even  for  a beginner. 
Flocks  of  Wild  Pigeons  had 
been  coming  all  day  across 
the  blue  Lake  of  Caygeo- 
null,  and  perching  in  lines 
on  the  dead  limbs  of  the  great  rampikes 
that  stood  as  monuments  of  fire,  around  the 
little  clearing  in  the  forest,  they  afforded  tempt- 
ing marks ; but  he  followed  them  for  hours 
in  vain.  They  seemed  to  know  the  exact 
range  of  the  old-fashioned  shotgun  and  rose 
on  noisy  wings  each  time  before  he  was  near 
169 


V 


p 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

enough  to  fire.  At  length  a small  flock  scat- 
tered among  the  low  green  trees  that  grew 
about  the  spring,  near  the  log  shanty,  and 
taking  advantage  of  the  cover,  Thorburn  went 
in  gently.  He  caught  sight  of  a single  Pigeon 
close  to  him,  took  a long  aim  and  fired.  A 
sharp  crack  resounded  at  almost  the  same  time 
and  the  bird  fell  dead.  Thorburn  rushed  to 
seize  the  prize  just  as  a tall  young  man  stepped 
into  view  and  picked  it  up. 

“ Hello,  Corney ! you  got  my  bird!  ” 

“ Y our  burrud ! Sure  yours  flew  away  thayre. 
I saw  them  settle  hayer  and  thought  I ’d  make 
sure  of  wan  with  the  rifle.” 

A careful  examination  showed  that  a rifle- 
ball  as  well  as  a charge  of  shot  had  struck  the 
Pigeon.  The  gunners  had  fired  on  the  same 
bird.  Both  enjoyed  the  joke,  though  it  had  its 
serious  side,  for  food  as  well  as  ammunition 
was  scarce  in  that  backwoods  home. 

Corney,  a superb  specimen  of  a six-foot 
Irish-Canadian  in  early  manhood,  now  led 
away  to  the  log  shanty  where  the  very  scarcity 
of  luxuries  and  the  roughness  of  their  lives  were 
sources  of  merriment.  For  the  Colts,  though 


170 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

born  and  bred  in  the  backwoods  of  Canada, 
had  lost  nothing  of  the  spirit  that  makes  the 
Irish  blood  a world-wide  synonym  of  heartiness 
and  wit. 

Corney  was  the  eldest  son  of  a large  family. 
The  old  folks  lived  at  Petersay,  twenty-five 
miles  to  the  southward.  He  had  taken  up  a 
“ claim  ” to  carve  his  own  home  out  of  the 
woods  at  Fenebonk,  and  his  grown  sisters, 
Margat,  staid  and  reliable,  and  Loo,  bright  and 
witty,  were  keeping  house  for  him.  Thorburn 
Alder  was  visiting  them.  He  had  just  recov- 
ered from  a severe  illness  and  had  been  sent  to 
rough  it  in  the  woods  in  hope  of  winning  some 
of  the  vigor  of  his  hosts.  Their  home  was  of 
unhewn  logs,  unfloored,  and  roofed  with  sods, 
which  bore  a luxuriant  crop  of  grass  and  weeds. 
The  primitive  woods  around  were  broken  in 
two  places ; one  where  the  roughest  of  roads 
led  southward  to  Petersay ; the  other  where 
the  sparkling  lake  rolled  on  a pebbly  shore 
and  gave  a glimpse  of  their  nearest  neighbor’s 
house — four  miles  across  the  water. 

Their  daily  round  had  little  change.  Corney 
was  up  at  daybreak  to  light  the  fire,  call  his 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 


sisters,  and  feed  the  horses  while  they  prepared 
breakfast.  At  six  the  meal  was  over  and  Cor- 
ney  went  to  his  work.  At  noon,  which  Margat 
knew  by  the  shadow  of  a certain  rampike  fall- 
ing on  the  spring,  a clear  notification  to  draw 
fresh  water  for  the  table,  Loo  would  hang  a 
white  rag  on  a pole,  and  Corney,  seeing  the 
signal,  would  return  from  summer  fallow  or  hay- 
field,  grimy,  swarthy,  and  ruddy,  a picture  of 
manly  vigor  and  honest  toil.  Thor  might  be  away 
all  day,  but  at  night,  when  they  again  assembled 
at  the  table,  he  would  come  from  lake  or  dis- 
tant ridge  and  eat  a supper  like  the  dinner 
and  breakfast,  for  meals  as  well  as  days  were 
exact  repeats : pork,  bread,  potatoes,  and  tea, 
with  occasionally  eggs  supplied  by  a dozen 
hens  around  the  little  log  stable,  with,  rarely, 
a variation  of  wild  meat,  for  Thor  was  not  a 
hunter  and  Corney  had  little  time  for  anything 
but  the  farm. 

II 


THE  LYNX 


A huge  four-foot  basswood  had  gone  the 
way  of  all  trees.  Death  had  been  generous— 


172 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

had  sent  the  three  warnings : it  was  the  biggest 
of  its  kind,  its  children  were  grown  up,  it  was 
hollow.  The  wintry  blast  that  sent  it  down 
had  broken  it  across  and  revealed  a great  hole 
where  should  have  been  its  heart.  A long 
wooden  cavern  in  the  middle  of  a sunny  open- 
ing, it  now  lay,  and  presented  an  ideal  home 
for  a Lynx  when  she  sought  a sheltered  nesting- 
place  for  her  coming  brood. 

Old  was  she  and  gaunt,  for  this  was  a year 
of  hard  times  for  the  Lynxes.  A Rabbit  plague 
the  autumn  before  had  swept  away  their  main 
support ; a winter  of  deep  snow  and  sudden 
crusts  had  killed  off  nearly  all  the  Partridges ; 
a long  wet  spring  had  destroyed  the  few  grow- 
ing coveys  and  had  kept  the  ponds  and  streams 
so  full  that  Fish  and  Frogs  were  safe  from  their 
armed  paws,  and  this  mother  Lynx  fared  no 
better  than  her  kind. 

The  little  ones — half  starved  before  they 
came — were  a double  drain,  for  they  took  the 
time  she  might  have  spent  in  hunting. 

The  Northern  Hare  is  the  favorite  food  of 
the  Lynx,  and  in  some  years  she  could  have 
killed  fifty  in  one  day,  but  never  one  did  she 


i73 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

see  this  season.  The  plague  had  done  its  work 
too  well. 

One  day  she  caught  a Red-squirrel  which 
had  run  into  a hollow  log  that  proved  a trap. 
Another  day  a fetid  Blacksnake  was  her  only 
food.  A day  was  missed,  and  the  little  ones 
whined  piteously  for  their  natural  food  and 
failing  drink.  One  day  she  saw  a large  black 
animal  of  unpleasant  but  familiar  smell.  Swiftly 
and  silently  she  sprang  to  make  attack.  She 
struck  it  once  on  the  nose,  but  the  Porcupine 
doubled  his  head  under,  his  tail  flew  up,  and 
the  mother  Lynx  was  speared  in  a dozen  places 
with  the  little  stinging  javelins.  She  drew  them 
all  with  her  teeth,  for  she  had  “ learned  Porcu- 
pine ” years  before,  and  only  the  hard  push  of 
want  would  have  made  her  strike  one  now. 

A Frog  was  all  she  caught  that  day.  On 
the  next,  as  she  ranged  the  farthest  woods  in  a 
long,  hard  hunt,  she  heard  a singular  calling 
voice.  It  was  new  to  her.  She  approached  it 
cautiously,  up  wind,  got  many  new  odors  and 
some  more  strange  sounds  in  coming.  The 
loud,  clear,  rolling  call  was  repeated  as  the 
mother  Lynx  came  to  an  opening  in  the  forest. 


J 


One  day  she  found  a Porcupine. 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

In  the  middle  of  it  were  two  enormous  musk- 
rat or  beaver-houses,  far  bigger  than  the  big- 
gest she  ever  before  had  seen.  They  were 
made  partly  of  logs  and  situated,  not  in  a pond, 
but  on  a dry  knoll.  Walking  about  them  were  a 
number  of  Partridges,  that  is,  birds  like  Par- 
tridges, only  larger  and  of  various  colors,  red, 
yellow,  and  white. 

She  quivered  with  the  excitement  that  in  a 
man  would  have  been  called  buck-fever.  Food 
— food — abundance  of  food,  and  the  old  hunt- 
ress sank  to  earth.  Her  breast  was  on  the 
ground,  her  elbows  above  her  back,  as  she  made 
stalk,  her  shrewdest,  subtlest  stalk  ; one  of  those 
Partridges  she  must  have  at  any  price  ; no  trick 
now  must  go  untried,  no  error  in  this  hunt ; if 
it  took  hours — all  day — she  must  approach  with 
certainty  to  win  before  the  quarry  took  to  flight. 

Only  a few  bounds  it  was  from  wood  shelter 
to  the  great  rat-house,  but  she  was  an  hour  in 
crawling  that  small  space.  From  stump  to 
brush,  from  log  to  bunch  of  grass  she  sneaked, 
a flattened  form,  and  the  Partridges  saw  her 
not.  They  fed  about,  the  biggest  uttering  the 
ringing  call  that  first  had  fallen  on  her  ear. 


*77 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

Once  they  seemed  to  sense  their  peril,  but  a 
long  await  dispelled  the  fear.  Now  they  were 
almost  in  reach,  and  she  trembled  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  the  hunting  heart  and  the  hungry 
maw.  Her  eye  centred  on  a white  one  not 
quite  the  nearest,  but  the  color  seemed  to  hold 
her  gaze. 

There  was  an  open  space  around  the  rat- 
house  ; outside  that  were  tall  weeds,  and  stumps 
were  scattered  everywhere.  The  white  bird 
wandered  behind  these  weeds,  the  red  one  of 
the  loud  voice  flew  to  the  top  of  the  rat- 
mound  and  sang  as  before.  The  mother  Lynx 
sank  lower  yet.  It  seemed  an  alarm  note  ; but 
no,  the  white  one  still  was  there ; she  could  see 
its  feathers  gleaming  through  the  weeds.  An 
open  space  now  lay  about.  The  huntress, 
flattened  like  an  empty  skin,  trailed  slow  and 
silent  on  the  ground  behind  a log  no  thicker 
than  her  neck ; if  she  could  reach  that  tuft  of 
brush  she  could  get  unseen  to  the  weeds  and 
then  would  be  near  enough  to  spring.  She 
could  smell  them  now — the  rich  and  potent 
smell  of  life,  of  flesh  and  blood,  that  set  her 
limbs  a-tingle  and  her  eyes  a-glow. 

\ 178 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

The  Partridges  still  scratched  and  fed ; an- 
other flew  to  the  high  top,  but  the  white  one 
remained.  Five  more  slow-gliding,  silent  steps, 
and  the  Lynx  was  behind  the  weeds,  the  white 
bird  shining  through ; she  gauged  the  distance, 
tried  the  footing,  swung  her  hind  legs  to  clear 
some  fallen  brush,  then  leaped  direct  with  all  her 
force,  and  the  white  one  never  knew  the  death 
it  died,  for  the  fateful  gray  shadow  dropped, 
the  swift  and  deadly  did  their  work,  and  before 
the  other  birds  could  realize  the  foe  or  fly,  the 
Lynx  was  gone,  with  the  white  bird  squirming 
in  her  jaws. 

Uttering  an  unnecessary  growl  of  inborn  fero- 
city and  joy  she  bounded  into  the  forest,  and 
bee-like  sped  for  home.  The  last  quiver  had 
gone  from  the  warm  body  of  the  victim  when 
she  heard  the  sound  of  heavy  feet  ahead.  She 
leaped  on  a log.  The  wings  of  her  prey  were 
muffling  her  eyes,  so  she  laid  the  bird  down  and 
held  it  safely  with  one  paw.  The  sound  drew 
nearer,  the  bushes  bent,  and  a Boy  stepped  into 
view.  The  old  Lynx  knew  and  hated  his  kind. 
She  had  watched  them  at  night,  had  followed 
them,  had  been  hunted  and  hurt  by  them.  For 
179 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

a moment  they  stood  face  to  face.  The  hunt- 
ress growled  a warning  that  was  also  a chal- 
lenge and  a defiance,  picked  up  the  bird  and 
bounded  from  the  log  into  the  sheltering  bushes. 
It  was  a mile  or  two  to  the  den,  but  she  stayed 
not  to  eat  till  the  sunlit  opening  and  the  big 
basswood  came  to  view ; then  a low  “ prr — prr  ” 
called  forth  the  little  ones  to  revel  with  their 
mother  in  a plenteous  meal  of  the  choicest 
food. 

Ill 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  LYNX 

At  first  Thor,  being  town-bred,  was  timid 
about  venturing  into  the  woods  beyond  the 
sound  of  Corney’s  axe ; but  day  by  day  he 
went  farther,  guiding  himself,  not  by  unreliable 
moss  on  trees,  but  by  sun,  compass,  and  land- 
scape features.  His  purpose  was  to  learn  about 
the  wild  animals  rather  than  to  kill  them ; but 
the  naturalist  is  close  kin  to  the  sportsman, 
and  the  gun  was  his  constant  companion.  In 
the  clearing,  the  only  animal  of  any  size  was  a 
fat  Woodchuck;  it  had  a hole  under  a stump 
180 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

some  hundred  yards  from  the  shanty.  On 
sunny  mornings  it  used  to  lie  basking  on  the 
stump,  but  eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of 
every  good  thing  in  the  woods.  The  Wood- 
chuck was  always  alert  and  Thor  tried  in  vain 
to  shoot  or  even  to  trap  him. 

“ Hyar,”  said  Corney  one  morning,  “ time 
we  had  some  fresh  meat.”  He  took  down  his 
rifle,  an  old-fashioned  brass-mounted  small-bore, 
and  loading  with  care  that  showed  the  true 
rifleman,  he  steadied  the  weapon  against  the 
door-jamb  and  fired.  The  Woodchuck  fell 
backward  and  lay  still.  Thor  raced  to  the 
place  and  returned  in  triumph  with  the  animal, 
shouting : “ Plumb  through  the  head — one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  yards.” 

Corney  controlled  the  gratified  smile  that 
wrestled  with  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  but  his 
bright  eyes  shone  a trifle  brighter  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

It  was  no  mere  killing  for  killing’s  sake,  for 
the  Woodchuck  was  spreading  a belt  of  destruc- 
tion in  the  crop  around  his  den.  Its  flesh 
supplied  the  family  with  more  than  one  good 
meal  and  Corney  showed  Thor  how  to  use  the 
181 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

skin.  First  the  pelt  was  wrapped  in  hard- 
wood ashes  for  twenty-four  hours.  This  brought 
the  hair  off.  Then  the  skin  was  soaked  for  three 
days  in  soft  soap  and  worked  by  hand,  as  it 
dried,  till  it  came  out  a white  strong  leather. 

Thor’s  wanderings  extended  farther  in  search 
of  the  things  which  always  came  as  surprises 
however  much  he  was  looking  for  them.  Many 
days  were  blanks  and  others  would  be  crowded 
with  incidents,  for  unexpectedness  is  above 
all  the  peculiar  feature  of  hunting,  and  its 
lasting  charm.  One  day  he  had  gone  far  be- 
yond the  ridge  in  a new  direction  and  passed 
through  an  open  glade  where  lay  the  broken 
trunk  of  a huge  basswood.  The  size  impressed 
it  on  his  memory.  He  swung  past  the  glade  to 
make  for  the  lake,  a mile  to  the  west,  and  twenty 
minutes  later  he  started  back  as  his  eye  rested 
on  a huge  black  animal  in  the  crotch  of  a 
hemlock,  some  thirty  feet  from  the  ground.  A 
Bear!  At  last,  this  was  the  test  of  nerve  he  had 
half  expected  all  summer ; had  been  wondering 
how  that  mystery  “ himself  ” would  act  under 
this  very  trial.  He  stood  still ; his  right  hand 
dived  into  his  pocket  and,  bringing  out  three  or 
182 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

four  buckshot,  which  he  carried  for  emergency, 
he  dropped  them  on  top  of  the  birdshot  already 
in  the  gun,  then  rammed  a wad  to  hold  them 
down. 

The  Bear  had  not  moved  and  the  boy  could 
not  see  its  head,  but  now  he  studied  it  care- 
fully. It  was  not  such  a large  one — no,  it  was 
a small  one,  yes,  very  small — a cub.  A cub! 
That  meant  a mother  Bear  at  hand,  and  Thor 
looked  about  with  some  fear,  but  seeing  no 
signs  of  any  except  the  little  one,  he  levelled 
the  gun  and  fired. 

Then  to  his  surprise  down  crashed  the  ani- 
mal quite  dead ; it  was  not  a Bear,  but  a large 
Porcupine.  As  it  lay  there  he  examined  it  with 
wonder  and  regret,  for  he  had  no  wish  to  kill 
such  a harmless  creature.  On  its  grotesque  face 
he  found  two  or  three  long  scratches  which 
proved  that  he  had  not  been  its  only  enemy. 
As  he  turned  away  he  noticed  some  blood  on 
his  trousers,  then  saw  that  his  left  hand  was 
bleeding.  He  had  wounded  himself  quite  se- 
verely on  the  quills  of  the  animal  without  know- 
ing it.  He  was  sorry  to  leave  the  specimen 
there,  and  Loo,  when  she  learned  of  it,  said  it 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

was  a shame  not  to  skin  it  when  she  “ needed 
a fur-lined  cape  for  the  winter.” 

On  another  day  Thor  had  gone  without  a 
gun,  as  he  meant  only  to  gather  some  curious 
plants  he  had  seen.  They  were  close  to  the 
clearing ; he  knew  the  place  by  a fallen  elm.  As 
he  came  to  it  he  heard  a peculiar  sound.  Then 
on  the  log  his  eye  caught  two  moving  things. 
He  lifted  a bough  and  got  a clear  view.  They 
were  the  head  and  tail  of  an  enormous  Lynx. 
It  had  seen  him  and  was  glaring  and  grumbling ; 
and  under  its  foot  on  the  log  was  a white  bird 
that  a second  glance  showed  to  be  one  of  their 
own  precious  hens.  How  fierce  and  cruel  the 
brute  looked!  How  Thor  hated  it!  and  fairly 
gnashed  his  teeth  with  disgust  that  now,  when 
his  greatest  chance  was  come,  he  for  once  was 
without  his  gun.  He  was  in  not  a little  fear, 
too,  and  stood  wondering  what  to  do.  The 
Lynx  growled  louder ; its  stumpy  tail  twitched 
viciously  for  a minute,  then  it  picked  up  its 
victim,  and  leaping  from  the  log  was  lost  to 
view. 

As  it  was  a very  rainy  summer,  the  ground 
was  soft  everywhere,  and  the  young  hunter 
184 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

was  led  to  follow  tracks  that  would  have  defied 
an  expert  in  dryer  times.  One  day  he  came  on 
piglike  footprints  in  the  woods.  He  followed 
them  with  little  difficulty,  for  they  were  new, 
and  a heavy  rain  two  hours  before  had  washed 
out  all  other  trails.  After  about  half  a mile 
they  led  him  to  an  open  ravine,  and  as  he 
reached  its  brow  he  saw  across  it  a flash  of 
white ; then  his  keen  young  eyes  made  out  the 
forms  of  a Deer  and  a spotted  Fawn  gazing  at 
him  curiously.  Though  on  their  trail  he  was 
not  a little  startled.  He  gazed  at  them  open- 
mouthed.  The  mother  turned  and  raised  the 
danger  flag,  her  white  tail,  and  bounded  lightly 
away,  to  be  followed  by  the  youngster,  clear- 
ing low  trunks  with  an  effortless  leap,  or  bend- 
ing down  with  catlike  suppleness  when  they 
came  to  a log  upraised  so  that  they  might  pass 
below. 

He  never  again  got  a chance  to  shoot  at 
them,  though  more  than  once  he  saw  the  same 
two  tracks,  or  believed  they  were  the  same,  as 
for  some  cause  never  yet  explained,  Deer  were 
scarcer  in  that  unbroken  forest  than  they  were 
in  later  years  when  clearings  spread  around. 

i85 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

He  never  again  saw  them ; but  he  saw  the 
mother  once — he  thought  it  was  the  same— 
she  was  searching  the  woods  with  her  nose,  try- 
ing the  ground  for  trails ; she  was  nervous  and 
anxious,  evidently  seeking.  Thor  remembered 
a trick  that  Corney  had  told  him.  He  gently 
stooped,  took  up  a broad  blade  of  grass,  laid  it 
between  the  edges  of  his  thumbs,  then  blowing 
through  this  simple  squeaker  he  made  a short, 
shrill  bleat,  a fair  imitation  of  a Fawn’s  cry  for 
the  mother,  and  the  Deer,  though  a long  way 
off,  came  bounding  toward  him.  He  snatched 
his  gun,  meaning  to  kill  her,  but  the  movement 
caught  her  eye.  She  stopped.  Her  mane 
bristled  a little ; she  sniffed  and  looked  inquir- 
ingly at  him.  Her  big  soft  eyes  touched  his 
heart,  held  back  his  hand ; she  took  a cautious 
step  nearer,  got  a full  whiff  of  her  mortal  enemy, 
bounded  behind  a big  tree  and  away  before  his 
merciful  impulse  was  gone.  “ Poor  thing,” 
said  Thor,  “ I believe  she  has  lost  her  little 
one.” 

Yet  once  more  the  Boy  met  a Lynx  in  the 
woods.  Half  an  hour  after  seeing  the  lonely 
Deer  he  crossed  the  long  ridge  that  lay  some 
186 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

miles  north  of  the  shanty.  He  had  passed  the 
glade  where  the  great  basswood  lay  when  a 
creature  like  a big  bob-tailed  Kitten  appeared 
and  looked  innocently  at  him.  His  gun  went 
up,  as  usual,  but  the  Kitten  merely  cocked  its 
head  on  one  side  and  fearlessly  surveyed  him. 
Then  a second  one  that  he  had  not  noticed  be- 
fore began  to  play  with  the  first,  pawing  at  its 
tail  and  inviting  its  brother  to  tussle. 

Thor’s  first  thought  to  shoot  was  stayed  as  he 
watched  their  gambols,  but  the  remembrance  of 
his  feud  with  their  race  came  back.  He  had 
almost  raised  the  gun  when  a fierce  rumble 
close  at  hand  gave  him  a start,  and  there,  not 
ten  feet  from  him,  stood  the  old  one,  looking 
big  and  fierce  as  a Tigress.  It  was  surely  folly 
to  shoot  at  the  young  ones  now.  The  boy 
nervously  dropped  some  buckshot  on  the  charge 
while  the  snarling  growl  rose  and  fell,  but  be- 
fore he  was  ready  to  shoot  at  her  the  old  one 
had  picked  up  something  that  was  by  her  feet; 
the  boy  got  a glimpse  of  rich  brown  with  white 
spots — the  limp  form  of  a newly  killed  Fawn. 
Then  she  passed  out  of  sight.  The  Kittens  fol- 
lowed, and  he  saw  her  no  more  until  the  time 
187 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

when,  life  against  life,  they  were  weighed  in  the 
balance  together. 

IV 

THE  TERROR  OF  THE  WOODS 


I 


I 


Six  weeks  had  passed  in  daily  routine  when 
one  day  the  young  giant  seemed  unusually 
quiet  as  he  went  about.  His  handsome  face 
was  very  sober  and  he  sang  not  at  all  that 
morning. 

He  and  Thor  slept  on  a hay-bunk  in  one 
corner  of  the  main  room,  and  that  night  the 
Boy  awakened  more  than  once  to  hear  his  com- 
panion groaning  and  tossing  in  his  sleep. 

Corney  arose  as  usual  in  the  morning  and 
fed  the  horses,  but  lay  down  again  while  the 
sisters  got  breakfast.  He  roused  himself  by  an 
effort  and  went  back  to  work,  but  came  home 
early.  He  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  It 
was  hot  summer  weather,  but  he  could  not  be 
kept  warm.  After  several  hours  a reaction  set  in 
and  Corney  was  in  a high  fever.  The  family 
knew  well  now  that  he  had  the  dreaded  chills 
and  fever  of  the  backwoods.  Margat  went  out 
1 88 


There  stood  the  Old  One,  ...  as  fierce  as  a Tigress,’ 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

and  gathered  a lapful  of  pipsissewa  to  make 
tea,  of  which  Corney  was  encouraged  to  drink 
copiously. 

But  in  spite  of  all  their  herbs  and  nursing  the 
young  man  got  worse.  At  the  end  of  ten  days 
he  was  greatly  reduced  in  flesh  and  incapable 
of  work,  so  on  one  of  the  “ well  days  ” that  are 
usual  in  the  course  of  the  disease  he  said : 

“ Say,  gurruls,  I can’t  stand  it  no  longer. 
Guess  I better  go  home.  I ’m  well  enough  to 
drive  to-day,  for  a while  anyway ; if  I ’m  took 
down  I ’ll  lay  in  the  wagon,  and  the  horses  will 
fetch  me  home.  Mother  ’ll  have  me  all  right 
in  a week  or  so.  If  you  run  out  of  grub  before 
I come  back  take  the  canoe  to  Ellerton’s.” 

So  the  girls  harnessed  the  horses ; the 
wagon  was  partly  filled  with  hay,  and  Corney, 
weak  and  white-faced,  drove  away  on  the  long 
rough  road,  and  left  them  feeling  much  as 
though  they  were  on  a desert  island  and  their 
only  boat  had  been  taken  from  them. 

Half  a week  had  scarcely  gone  before  all 
three  of  them,  Margat,  Loo,  and  Thor,  were 
taken  down  with  a yet  more  virulent  form  of 
chills  and  fever. 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

Corney  had  had  every  other  a “ well  day,” 
but  with  these  three  there  were  no  “well  days” 
and  the  house  became  an  abode  of  misery. 

Seven  days  passed,  and  now  Margat  could 
not  leave  her  bed  and  Loo  was  barely  able  to 
walk  around  the  house.  She  was  a brave  girl 
with  a fund  of  drollery  which  did  much  toward 
keeping  up  all  their  spirits,  but  her  merriest 
jokes  fell  ghastly  from  her  wan,  pinched  face. 
Thor,  though  weak  and  ill,  was  the  strongest 
and  did  for  the  others,  cooking  and  serving 
each  day  a simple  meal,  for  they  could  eat 
very  little,  fortunately,  perhaps,  as  there  was 
very  little,  and  Corney  could  not  return  for  an- 
other week. 

Soon  Thor  was  the  only  one  able  to  rise,  and 
one  morning  when  he  dragged  himself  to  cut 
the  little  usual  slice  of  their  treasured  bacon  he 
found,  to  his  horror,  that  the  whole  piece  was 
gone.  It  had  been  stolen,  doubtless  by  some 
wild  animal,  from  the  little  box  on  the  shady 
side  of  the  house,  where  it  was  kept  safe  from 
flies.  Now  they  were  down  to  flour  and  tea. 
He  was  in  despair,  when  his  eye  lighted  on  the 
Chickens  about  the  stable ; but  what ’s  the  use  ? 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 


In  his  feeble  state  he  might  as  well  try  to  catch 
a Deer  or  a Hawk.  Suddenly  he  remembered 
his  gun  and  very  soon  was  preparing  a fat  Hen 
for  the  pot.  He  boiled  it  whole  as  the  easiest 
way  to  cook  it,  and  the  broth  was  the  first  really 
tempting  food  they  had  had  for  some  time. 

They  kept  alive  for  three  wretched  days  on 
that  Chicken,  and  when  it  was  finished  Thor 
again  took  down  his  gun — it  seemed  a much 
heavier  gun  now.  He  crawled  to  the  barn,  but 
he  was  so  weak  and  shaky  that  he  missed  sev- 
eral times  before  he  brought  down  a fowl. 
Corney  had  taken  the  rifle  away  with  him  and 
three  charges  of  gun  ammunition  were  all  that 
now  remained. 

Thor  was  surprised  to  see  how  few  Hens  there 
were  now,  only  three  or  four.  There  used  to 
be  over  a dozen.  Three  days  later  he  made 
another  raid.  He  saw  but  one  Hen  and  he 
used  up  his  last  ammunition  to  get  that. 

His  daily  routine  now  was  a monotony  of 
horror.  In  the  morning,  which  was  his  “ well 
time,”  he  prepared  a little  food  for  the  house- 
hold and  got  ready  for  the  night  of  raging  fever 
by  putting  a bucket  of  water  on  a block  at  the 


/ <* 


i93 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

head  of  each  bunk.  About  one  o’clock,  with 
fearful  regularity,  the  chills  would  come  on, 
with  trembling  from  head  to  foot  and  chattering 
teeth,  and  cold,  cold,  within  and  without.  No- 
thing seemed  to  give  any  warmth — fire  seemed 
to  have  lost  its  power.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  but  to  lie  and  shake  and  suffer  all  the 
slow  torture  of  freezing  to  death  and  shak- 
ing to  pieces.  For  six  hours  it  would  keep  up, 
and  to  the  torture,  nausea  lent  its  horrid  aid 
throughout ; then  about  seven  or  eight  o’clock 
in  the  evening  a change  would  come ; a burn- 
ing fever  set  in ; no  ice  could  have  seemed 
cool  to  him  then;  water — water — was  all  he 
craved,  and  drank  and  drank  until  three  or  four 
in  the  morning,  when  the  fever  would  abate, 
and  a sleep  of  total  exhaustion  followed. 

“ If  you  run  out  of  food  take  the  canoe  to 
Ellerton’s,”  was  the  brother’s  last  word.  Who 
was  to  take  the  canoe  ? 

There  was  but  half  a Chicken  now  between 
them  and  starvation,  and  no  sign  of  Corney. 

For  three  interminable  weeks  the  deadly 
program  dragged  along.  It  went  on  the  same 
yet  worse,  as  the  sufferers  grew  weaker— a few 
194 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

days  more  and  the  Boy  also  would  be  unable  to 
leave  his  couch.  Then  what  ? 

Despair  was  on  the  house  and  the  silent  cry 
of  each  was,  “ Oh,  God!  will  Corney  never 
come  ? ” 

V 

THE  HOME  OF  THE  BOY 

On  the  day  of  that  last  Chicken,  Thor  was 
all  morning  carrying  water  enough  for  the 
coming  three  fevers.  The  chill  attacked  him 
sooner  than  it  was  due  and  his  fever  was  worse 
than  ever  before. 

He  drank  deeply  and  often  from  the  bucket 
at  his  head.  He  had  filled  it,  and  it  was  nearly 
emptied  when  about  two  in  the  morning  the 
fever  left  him  and  he  fell  asleep. 

In  the  gray  dawn  he  was  awakened  by  a 
curious  sound  not  far  away — a splashing  of 
water.  He  turned  his  head  to  see  two  glaring 
eyes  within  a foot  of  his  face — a great  Beast 
lapping  the  water  in  the  bucket  by  his  bed. 

Thor  gazed  in  horror  for  a moment,  then 
closed  his  eyes,  sure  that  he  was  dreaming, 


J95 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

certain  that  this  was  a nightmare  of  India  with 
a Tiger  by  his  couch ; but  the  lapping  con- 
tinued. He  looked  up ; yes,  it  still  was  there. 
He  tried  to  find  his  voice  but  uttered  only  a 
gurgle.  The  great  furry  head  quivered,  a sniff 
came  from  below  the  shining  eyeballs,  and  the 
creature,  whatever  it  was,  dropped  to  its  front 
feet  and  went  across  the  hut  under  the  table. 
Thor  was  fully  awake  now ; he  rose  slowly  on 
his  elbow  and  feebly  shouted  “ Sssh-hi,”  at 
which  the  shining  eyes  reappeared  under  the 
table  and  the  gray  form  came  forth.  Calmly 
it  walked  across  the  ground  and  glided  under 
the  lowest  log  at  a place  where  an  old  potato- 
pit  left  an  opening  and  disappeared. 

What  was  it  ? The  sick  boy  hardly  knew — 
some  savage  Beast  of  prey,  undoubtedly.  He 
was  totally  unnerved.  He  shook  with  fear  and 
a sense  of  helplessness,  and  the  night  passed  in 
fitful  sleep  and  sudden  starts  awake  to  search 
the  gloom  again  for  those  fearful  eyes  and  the 
great  gray  gliding  form.  In  the  morning  he 
did  not  know  whether  it  were  not  all  a delirium, 
yet  he  made  a feeble  effort  to  close  the  old 
cellar  hole  with  some  firewood. 

196 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

The  three  had  little  appetite,  but  even  that 
they  restrained  since  now  they  were  down  to 
part  of  a Chicken,  and  Corney,  evidently  he 
supposed  they  had  been  to  Ellerton’s  and  got 
all  the  food  they  needed. 

Again  that  night,  when  the  fever  left  him 
weak  and  dozing,  Thor  was  awakened  by  a 
noise  in  the  room,  a sound  of  crunching  bones. 
He  looked  around  to  see  dimly  outlined  against 
the  little  window,  the  form  of  a large  animal  on 
the  table.  Thor  shouted ; he  tried  to  hurl  his 
boot  at  the  intruder.  It  leaped  lightly  to  the 
ground  and  passed  out  of  the  hole,  again  wide 
open. 

It  was  no  dream  this  time,  he  knew,  and  the 
women  knew  it,  too ; not  only  had  they  heard 
the  creature,  but  the  Chicken,  the  last  of  their 
food,  was  wholly  gone. 

Poor  Thor  barely  left  his  couch  that  day. 
It  needed  all  the  querulous  complaints  of  the 
sick  women  to  drive  him  forth.  Down  by  the 
spring  he  found  a few  berries  and  divided  them 
with  the  others.  He  made  his  usual  prepara- 
tions for  the  chills  and  the  thirst,  but  he  added 
this — by  the  side  of  his  couch  he  put  an  old  fish- 


j97 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

spear — the  only  weapon  he  could  find,  now  the 
gun  was  useless — a pine-root  candle  and  some 
matches.  He  knew  the  Beast  was  coming  back 
again — was  coming  hungry.  It  would  find  no 
food ; what  more  natural,  he  thought,  than 
take  the  living  prey  lying  there  so  helpless  ? 
And  a vision  came  of  the  limp  brown  form  of 
the  little  Fawn,  borne  off  in  those  same  cruel 
jaws. 

Once  again  he  barricaded  the  hole  with  fire- 
wood, and  the  night  passed  as  usual,  but  with- 
out any  fierce  visitor.  Their  food  that  day  was 
flour  and  water,  and  to  cook  it  Thor  was  forced 
to  use  some  of  his  barricade.  Loo  attempted 
some  feeble  joke,  guessed  she  was  light  enough 
to  fly  now  and  tried  to  rise,  but  she  got  no 
farther  than  the  edge  of  the  bunk.  The  same 
preparations  were  made,  and  the  night  wore 
on,  but  early  in  the  morning,  Thor  was  again 
awakened  rudely  by  the  sound  of  lapping  water 
by  his  bed,  and  there,  as  before,  were  the  glow- 
ing eyeballs,  the  great  head,  the  gray  form 
relieved  by  the  dim  light  from  the  dawning 
window. 

Thor  put  all  his  strength  into  what  was 
198 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 


meant  for  a bold  shout,  but  it  was  merely  a 
feeble  screech.  He  rose  slowly  and  called  out: 
“ Loo,  Margat!  The  Lynx— here ’s  the  Lynx 
again  ! ” 

“ May  God  help  ye,  for  we  can’t,”  was  the 
answer. 

“Sssh-hi!”  Thor  tried  again  to  drive  the 
Beast  away.  It  leaped  on  to  the  table  by  the 
window  and  stood  up  growling  under  the  use- 
less gun.  Thor  thought  it  was  going  to  leap 
through  the  glass  as  it  faced  the  window  a 
moment ; but  it  turned  and  glared  toward  the 
Boy,  for  he  could  see  both  eyes  shining.  He 
rose  slowly  to  the  side  of  his  bunk  and  he 
prayed  for  help,  for  he  felt  it  was  kill  or  be 
killed.  He  struck  a match  and  lighted  his 
pine-root  candle,  held  that  in  his  left  hand  and 
in  his  right  took  the  old  fish-spear,  meaning  to 
fight,  but  he  was  so  weak  he  had  to  use  the 
fish-spear  as  a crutch.  The  great  Beast  stood 
on  the  table  still,  but  was  crouching  a little  as 
though  for  a spring.  Its  eyes  glowed  red  in 
the  torchlight.  Its  short  tail  was  switching  from 
side  to  side  and  its  growling  took  a higher  pitch. 
Thor’s  knees  were  smiting  together,  but  he 


199 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

levelled  the  spear  and  made  a feeble  lunge  to- 
ward the  brute.  It  sprang  at  the  same  moment, 
not  at  him,  as  he  first  thought — the  torch  and 
the  boy’s  bold  front  had  had  effect— it  went 
over  his  head  to  drop  on  the  ground  beyond 
and  at  once  to  slink  under  the  bunk. 

This  was  only  a temporary  repulse.  Thor 
set  the  torch  on  a ledge  of  the  logs,  then  took 
the  spear  in  both  hands.  He  was  fighting  for 
his  life,  and  he  knew  it.  He  heard  the  voices 
of  the  women  feebly  praying.  He  saw  only  the 
glowing  eyes  under  the  bed  and  heard  the  growl- 
ing in  higher  pitch  as  the  Beast  was  nearing  ac- 
tion. He  steadied  himself  by  a great  effort 
and  plunged  the  spear  with  all  the  force  he 
could  give  it. 

It  struck  something  softer  than  the  logs : a 
hideous  snarl  came  forth.  The  boy  threw  all 
his  weight  on  the  weapon  ; the  Beast  was  strug- 
gling to  get  at  him  ; he  felt  its  teeth  and  claws 
grating  on  the  handle,  and  in  spite  of  himself 
it  was  coming  on  ; its  powerful  arms  and  claws 
were  reaching  for  him  now ; he  could  not  hold 
out  long.  He  put  on  all  his  force,  just  a little 
more  it  was  than  before ; the  Beast  lurched, 


200 


He  made  a feeble  lunge  at  the  Brute. 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

there  was  a growling,  a crack,  and  a sudden 
yielding ; the  rotten  old  spear-head  had  broken 
off,  the  Beast  sprang  out — at  him — past  him — 
never  touched  him,  but  across  through  the  hole 
and  away,  to  be  seen  no  more. 

Thor  fell  on  the  bed  and  lost  all  consciousness. 

He  lay  there  he  knew  not  how  long,  but  was 
awakened  in  broad  daylight  by  a loud,  cheery 
voice : 

“ Hello!  Hello!  — are  ye  all  dead  ? Loo! 
Thor!  Margat!” 

He  had  no  strength  to  answer,  but  there  was 
a trampling  of  horses  outside,  a heavy  step,  the 
door  was  forced  open,  and  in  strode  Corney, 
handsome  and  hearty  as  ever.  But  what  a 
flash  of  horror  and  pain  came  over  his  face  on 
entering  the  silent  shanty  ! 

“Dead?”  he  gasped.  “Who  ’s  dead — 
where  are  you  ? Thor  ? ” Then,  “ Who  is  it  ? 
Loo  ? Margat  ? ” 

“ Corney — Corney,”  came  feebly  from  the 
bunk.  “ They  ’re  in  there.  They  ’re  awful  sick. 
We  have  nothing  to  eat.” 

“ Oh,  what  a fool  I be  ! ” said  Corney  again 


203 


The  Boy  and  the  Lynx 

and  again.  “ I made  sure  ye  ’d  go  to  Ellerton’s 
and  get  all  ye  wanted.” 

“We  had  no  chance,  Corney ; we  were  all 
three  brought  down  at  once,  right  after  you 
left.  Then  the  Lynx  came  and  cleared  up  the 
Hens,  and  all  in  the  house,  too.” 

“ Well,  ye  got  even  with  her,”  and  Corney 
pointed  to  the  trail  of  blood  across  the  mud 
floor  and  out  under  the  logs. 

Good  food,  nursing,  and  medicine  restored 
them  all. 

A month  or  two  later,  when  the  women 
wanted  a new  leaching-barrel,  Thor  said : “ I 
know  where  there  is  a hollow  basswood  as  big 
as  a hogshead.” 

He  and  Corney  went  to  the  place,  and  when 
they  cut  off  what  they  needed,  they  found  in  the 
far  end  of  it  the  dried-up  bodies  of  two  little 
Lynxes  with  that  of  the  mother,  and  in  the 
side  of  the  old  one  was  the  head  of  a fish-spear 
broken  from  the  handle. 


204 


Little  War  horse 

The  History  of  a Jack-rabbit 


i 


HE  Little  Warhorse  knew 
practically  all  the  Dogs  in 
town.  First,  there  was  a 
very  large  brown  Dog  that 
had  pursued  him  many 
times,  a Dog  that  he  always 
got  rid  of  by  slipping 
through  a hole  in  a board  fence.  Second^ 
there  was  a small  active  Dog  that  could  follow 
through  that  hole,  and  him  he  baffled  by  leap- 
ing a twenty-foot  irrigation  ditch  that  had  steep 
sides  and  a swift  current.  The  Dog  could  not 
make  this  leap.  It  was  u sure  medicine”  for 
that  foe,  and  the  boys  still  call  the  place  “ Old 


Little  Warhorse 


Jacky’s  Jump.”  But  there  was  a Greyhound 
that  could  leap  better  than  the  Jack,  and  when 
he  could  not  follow  through  a fence,  he  jumped 
over  it.  He  tried  the  Warhorse’s  mettle  more 
than  once,  and  Jacky  only  saved  himself  by  his 
quick  dodging,  till  they  got  to  an  Osage  hedge, 
and  here  the  Greyhound  had  to  give  it  up.  Be- 
sides these,  there  was  in  town  a rabble  of  big 
and  little  Dogs  that  were  troublesome,  but 
easily  left  behind  in  the  open. 

In  the  country  there  was  a Dog  at  each 
farm-house,  but  only  one  that  the  Warhorse 
really  feared ; that  was  a long-legged,  fierce, 
black  Dog,  a brute  so  swift  and  pertinacious 
that  he  had  several  times  forced  the  Warhorse 
almost  to  the  last  extremity. 

For  the  town  Cats  he  cared  little ; only  once 
or  twice  had  he  been  threatened  by  them.  A 
huge  Tom-cat  flushed  with  many  victories  came 
crawling  up  to  where  he  fed  one  moonlight 
night.  Jack  Warhorse  saw  the  black  creature 
with  the  glowing  eyes,  and  a moment  before 
the  final  rush,  he  faced  it,  raised  up  on  his 
haunches, — his  hind  legs, — at  full  length  on  his 
toes, — with  his  broad  ears  towering  up  yet  six 
208 


Little  Warhorse 


inches  higher;  then  letting  out  a loud  churrr- 
churrr , his  best  attempt  at  a roar,  he  sprang 
five  feet  forward  and  landed  on  the  Cat’s  head, 
driving  in  his  sharp  hind  nails,  and  the  old  Tom 
fled  in  terror  from  the  weird  two-legged  giant. 
This  trick  he  had  tried  several  times  with  suc- 
cess, but  twice  it  turned  out  a sad  failure: 
once,  when  the  Cat  proved  to  be  a mother 
whose  Kittens  were  near;  then  Jack  Warhorse 
had  to  flee  for  his  life ; and  the  other  time  was 
when  he  made  the  mistake  of  landing  hard  on 
a Skunk. 

But  the  Greyhound  was  the  dangerous 
enemy,  and  in  him  the  Warhorse  might  have 
found  his  fate,  but  for  a curious  adventure  with 
a happy  ending  for  Jack. 

He  fed  by  night;  there  were  fewer  enemies 
about  then,  and  it  was  easier  to  hide ; but  one 
day  at  dawn  in  winter  he  had  lingered  long  at 
an  alfalfa  stack  and  was  crossing  the  open 
snow  toward  his  favorite  form,  when,  as  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  he  met  the  Greyhound  prowling 
outside  the  town.  With  open  snow  and  grow- 
ing daylight  there  was  no  chance  to  hide, 
nothing  but  a run  in  the  open  with  soft  snow 


209 


Little  Warhorse 

that  hindered  the  Jack  more  than  it  did  the 
Hound. 

Off  they  went  — superb  runners  in  fine 
fettle.  How  they  skimmed  across  the  snow, 
raising  it  in  little  puff —puff —puffs,  each  time 
their  nimble  feet  went  down.  This  way  and 
that,  swerving  and  dodging,  went  the  chase. 
Everything  favored  the  Dog, — his  empty 
stomach,  the  cold  weather,  the  soft  snow, — 
while  the  Rabbit  was  handicapped  by  his 
heavy  meal  of  alfalfa.  But  his  feet  went  puff 
— puff  so  fast  that  a dozen  of  the  little  snow- 
jets  were  in  view  at  once.  The  chase  contin- 
ued in  the  open  ; no  friendly  hedge  was  near, 
and  every  attempt  to  reach  a fence  was  clev- 
erly stopped  by  the  Hound.  Jack’s  ears  were 
losing  their  bold  up-cock,  a sure  sign  of  failing 
heart  or  wind,  when  all  at  once  these  flags  went 
stiffly  up,  as  under  sudden  renewal  of  strength. 
The  Warhorse  put  forth  all  his  power,  not  to 
reach  the  hedge  to  the  north,  but  over  the  open 
prairie  eastward.  The  Greyhound  followed, 
and  within  fifty  yards  the  Jack  dodged  to  foil 
his  fierce  pursuer ; but  on  the  next  tack  he  was 
on  his  eastern  course  again,  and  so  tacking 


210 


Little  Warhorse 

and  dodging,  he  kept  the  line  direct  for  the 
next  farm-house,  where  was  a very  high  board 
fence  with  a hen-hole,  and  where  also  there 
dwelt  his  other  hated  enemy,  the  big  black 
Dog.  An  outer  hedge  delayed  the  Greyhound 
for  a moment  and  gave  Jack  time  to  dash 
through  the  hen-hole  into  the  yard,  where  he 
hid  to  one  side.  The  Greyhound  rushed 
around  to  the  low  gate,  leaped  over  that  among 
the  Hens,  and  as  they  fled  cackling  and  flutter- 
ing, some  Lambs  bleated  loudly.  Their  natural 
guardian,  the  big  black  Dog,  ran  to  the  rescue, 
and  Warhorse  slipped  out  again  by  the  hole 
at  which  he  had  entered.  Horrible  sounds  of 
Dog  hate  and  fury  were  heard  behind  him  in 
the  hen-yard,  and  soon  the  shouts  of  men  were 
added.  How  it  ended  he  did  not  know  or  seek 
to  learn,  but  it  was  remarkable  that  he  never 
afterward  was  troubled  by  the  swift  Greyhound 
that  formerly  lived  in  Newchusen. 

II 

Hard  times  and  easy  times  had  long  followed 
in  turn  and  been  taken  as  matters  of  course ; 


21  I 


Little  Warhorse 


but  recent  years  in  the  State  of  Kaskado  had 
brought  to  the  Jack-rabbits  a succession  of  re- 
markable ups  and  downs.  In  the  old  days  they 
had  their  endless  fight  with  Birds  and  Beasts 
of  Prey,  with  cold  and  heat,  with  pestilence 
and  with  flies  whose  sting  bred  a loathsome 
disease,  and  yet  had  held  their  own.  But  the 
settling  of  the  country  by  farmers  made  many 
changes. 

Dogs  and  guns  arriving  in  numbers  reduced 
the  ranks  of  Coyotes,  Foxes,  Wolves,  Badgers, 
and  Hawks  that  preyed  on  the  Jack,  so  that 
in  a few  years  the  Rabbits  were  multiplied  in 
great  swarms ; but  now  Pestilence  broke  out 
and  swept  them  away.  Only  the  strongest — the 
double-seasoned — remained.  For  a while  a 
Jack-rabbit  was  a rarity;  but  during  this  time 
another  change  came  in.  The  Osage-orange 
hedges  planted  everywhere  afforded  a new 
refuge,  and  now  the  safety  of  a Jack-rabbit 
was  less  often  his  speed  than  his  wits,  and  the 
wise  ones,  when  pursued  by  a Dog  or  Coyote, 
would  rush  to  the  nearest  hedge  through  a 
small  hole  and  escape  while  the  enemy  sought 
for  a larger  one  by  which  to  follow.  The  Coy- 


2 I 2 


Little  Warhorse 


otes  rose  to  this  and  developed  the  trick  of  the 
relay  chase.  In  this  one  Coyote  takes  one  field, 
another  the  next,  and  if  the  Rabbit  attempts 
the  “ hedge-ruse  ” they  work  from  each  side  and 
usually  win  their  prey.  The  Rabbit  remedy 
for  this,  is  keen  eyes  to  see  the  second  Coyote, 
avoidance  of  that  field,  then  good  legs  to  dis- 
tance the  first  enemy. 

Thus  the  Jack-rabbits,  after  being  succes- 
sively numerous,  scarce,  in  myriads,  and  rare, 
were  now  again  on  the  increase,  and  those 
which  survived,  selected  by  a hundred  hard 
trials,  were  enabled  to  flourish  where  their 
ancestors  could  not  have  outlived  a single 
season. 

Their  favorite  grounds  were,  not  the  broad 
open  stretches  of  the  big  ranches,  but  the 
complicated,  much-fenced  fields  of  the  farms, 
where  these  were  so  small  and  close  as  to  be 
like  a big  straggling  village. 

One  of  these  vegetable  villages  had  sprung 
up  around  the  railway  station  of  Newchusen. 
The  country  a mile  away  was  well  supplied 
with  Jack-rabbits  of  the  new  and  selected 
stock.  Among  them  was  a little  lady  Rabbit 


213 


Little  Warhorse 


called  “ Bright-eyes,”  from  her  leading  char- 
acteristic as  she  sat  gray  in  the  gray  brush. 
She  was  a good  runner,  but  was  especially 
successful  with  the  fence-play  that  baffled  the 
Coyotes.  She  made  her  nest  out  in  an  open 
pasture,  an  untouched  tract  of  the  ancient 
prairie.  Here  her  brood  were  born  and  raised. 
One  like  herself  was  bright-eyed,  in  coat  of 
silver-gray,  and  partly  gifted  with  her  ready 
wits,  but  in  the  other,  there  appeared  a rare 
combination  of  his  mother’s  gifts  with  the  best 
that  was  in  the  best  strain  of  the  new  Jack- 
rabbits  of  the  plains. 

This  was  the  one  whose  adventures  we  have 
been  following,  the  one  that  later  on  the  turf 
won  the  name  of  Little  Warhorse  and  that 
afterward  achieved  a world-wide  fame. 

Ancient  tricks  of  his  kind  he  revived  and 
put  to  new  uses,  and  ancient  enemies  he 
learned  to  fight  with  new-found  tricks. 

When  a mere  baby  he  discovered  a plan 
that  was  worthy  of  the  wisest  Rabbit  in  Ivas- 
kado.  He  was  pursued  by  a horrible  little 
Yellow  Dog,  and  he  had  tried  in  vain  to  get 
rid  of  him  by  dodging  among  the  fields  and 


214 


Little  Warhorse 


farms.  This  is  good  play  against  a Coyote,  be- 
cause the  farmers  and  the  Dogs  will  often  help 
the  Jack,  without  knowing  it,  by  attacking  the 
Coyote.  But  now  the  plan  did  not  work  at 
all,  for  the  little  Dog  managed  to  keep  after 
him  through  one  fence  after  another,  and  Jack 
Warhorse,  not  yet  full-grown,  much  less  sea- 
soned, was  beginning  to  feel  the  strain.  His 
ears  were  no  longer  up  straight,  but  angling 
back  and  at  times  drooping  to  a level,  as  he 
darted  through  a very  little  hole  in  an  Osage 
hedge,  only  to  find  that  his  nimble  enemy  had 
done  the  same  without  loss  of  time.  In  the 
middle  of  the  field  was  a small  herd  of  cattle 
and  with  them  a calf. 

There  is  in  wild  animals  a curious  impulse  to 
trust  any  stranger  when  in  desperate  straits. 
The  foe  behind  they  know  means  death. 
There  is  just  a chance,  and  the  only  one  left,  that 
the  stranger  may  prove  friendly  ; and  it  was  this 
last  desperate  chance  that  drew  Jack  Warhorse 
to  the  Cows. 

It  is  quite  sure  that  the  Cows  would  have 
stood  by  in  stolid  indifference  so  far  as  the 
Rabbit  was  concerned,  but  they  have  a deep- 


215 


Little  War  horse 


rooted  hatred  of  a Dog,  and  when  they  saw  the 
Yellow  Cur  coming  bounding  toward  them, 
their  tails  and  noses  went  up ; they  sniffed  an- 
grily, then  closed  up  ranks,  and  led  by  the  Cow 
that  owned  the  Calf,  they  charged  at  the  Dog, 
while  Jack  took  refuge  under  a low  thorn-bush. 
The  Dog  swerved  aside  to  attack  the  Calf,  at 
least  the  old  Cow  thought  he  did,  and  she  fol- 
lowed him  so  fiercely  that  he  barely  escaped 
from  that  field  with  his  life. 

It  was  a good  old  plan — one  that  doubtless 
came  from  the  days  when  Buffalo  and  Coyote 
played  the  parts  of  Cow  and  Dog.  Jack 
never  forgot  it,  and  more  than  once  it  saved 
his  life. 

In  color  as  well  as  in  power  he  was  a rarity. 

Animals  are  colored  in  one  or  other  of  two 
general  plans : one  that  matches  them  with 
their  surroundings  and  helps  them  to  hide— 
this  is  called  “ protective  ” ; the  other  that 
makes  them  very  visible  for  several  purposes  — 
this  is  called  “directive.”  Jack-rabbits  are 
peculiar  in  being  painted  both  ways.  As  they 
squat  in  their  form  in  the  gray  brush  or  clods, 
they  are  soft  gray  on  their  ears,  head,  back,  and 
216 


Little  Warhorse 


sides ; they  match  the  ground  and  cannot  be 
seen  until  close  at  hand — they  are  protectively 
colored.  But  the  moment  it  is  clear  to  the 
Jack  that  the  approaching  foe  will  find  him,  he 
jumps  up  and  dashes  away.  He  throws  off  all 
disguise  now,  the  gray  seems  to  disappear ; he 
makes  a lightning  change,  and  his  ears  show 
snowy  white  with  black  tips,  the  legs  are  white, 
his  tail  is  a black  spot  in  a blaze  of  white.  He 
is  a black-and-white  Rabbit  now.  His  color- 
ing is  all  directive.  How  is  it  done?  Very 
simply.  The  front  side  of  the  ear  is  gray,  the 
back,  black  and  white.  The  black  tail  with  its 
white  halo,  and  the  legs,  are  tucked  below.  He 
is  sitting  on  them.  The  gray  mantle  is  pulled 
down  and  enlarged  as  he  sits,  but  when  he 
jumps  up  it  shrinks  somewhat,  all  his  black-and- 
white  marks  are  now  shown,  and  just  as  his 
colors  formerly  whispered,  “ I am  a clod,”  they 
now  shout  aloud,  “ I am  a Jack-rabbit.” 

Why  should  he  do  this?  Why  should  a 
timid  creature  running  for  his  life  thus  proclaim 
to  all  the  world  his  name  instead  of  trying  to 
hide?  There  must  be  some  good  reason.  It 
must  pay,  or  the  Rabbit  would  never  have  done 


217 


Little  Warhorse 

it.  The  answer  is,  if  the  creature  that  scared 
him  up  was  one  of  his  own  kind— i.e.,  this  was  a 
false  alarm — then  at  once,  by  showing  his  na- 
tional colors,  the  mistake  is  made  right.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  it  be  a Coyote,  Fox,  or  Dog, 
they  see  at  once,  this  is  a Jack-rabbit,  and 
know  that  it  would  be  waste  of  time  for  them 
to  pursue  him.  They  say  in  effect,  “ This  is  a 
Jack-rabbit,  and  I cannot  catch  a Jack  in  open 
race.”  They  give  it  up,  and  that,  of  course, 
saves  the  Jack  a great  deal  of  unnecessary  run- 
ning and  worry.  The  black-and-white  spots 
are  the  national  uniform  and  flag  of  the  Jacks. 
In  poor  specimens  they  are  apt  to  be  dull,  but 
in  the  finest  specimens  they  are  not  only  larger, 
but  brighter  than  usual,  and  the  Little  War- 
horse,  gray  when  he  sat  in  his  form,  blazed 
like  charcoal  and  snow,  when  he  flung  his  defi- 
ance to  the  Fox  and  buff  Coyote,  and  danced 
with  little  effort  before  them,  first  a black-and- 
white  Jack,  then  a little  white  spot,  and  last  a 
speck  of  thistledown,  before  the  distance  swal- 
lowed him. 

Many  of  the  farmers’  Dogs  had  learned  the 
lesson  : “ A grayish  Rabbit  you  may  catch,  but 
218 


Little  War  horse 


a very  black-and-white  one  is  hopeless.”  They 
might,  indeed,  follow  for  a time,  but  that  was 
merely  for  the  fun  of  a chivvy,  and  his  growing 
power  often  led  Warhorse  to  seek  the  chase  for 
the  sake  of  a little  excitement,  and  to  take 
hazards  that  others  less  gifted  were  most  care- 
ful to  avoid. 

Jack,  like  all  other  wild  animals,  had  a cer- 
tain range  or  country  which  was  home  to  him, 
and  outside  of  this  he  rarely  strayed.  It  was 
about  three  miles  across,  extending  easterly 
from  the  centre  of  the  village.  Scattered 
through  this  he  had  a number  of  “ forms,”  or 
“ beds  ” as  they  are  locally  called.  These  were 
mere  hollows  situated  under  a sheltering  bush 
or  bunch  of  grass,  without  lining  excepting  the 
accidental  grass  and  in-blown  leaves.  But 
comfort  was  not  forgotten.  Some  of  them  were 
for  hot  weather;  they  faced  the  north,  were 
scarcely  sunk,  were  little  more  than  shady 
places.  Some  for  the  cold  weather  were  deep 
hollows  with  southern  exposure,  and  others  for 
the  wet  were  well  roofed  with  herbage  and 
faced  the  west.  In  one  or  other  of  these  he 
spent  the  day,  and  at  night  he  went  forth  to 
219 


Little  Warhorse 


feed  with  his  kind,  sporting  and  romping  on  the 
moonlight  nights  like  a lot  of  puppy  Dogs,  but 
careful  to  be  gone  by  sunrise,  and  safely  tucked 
in  a bed  that  was  suited  to  the  weather. 

The  safest  ground  for  the  Jacks  was  among 
the  farms,  where  not  only  Osage  hedges,  but 
also  the  newly  arrived  barb-wire,  made  hurdles 
and  hazards  in  the  path  of  possible  enemies. 
But  the  finest  of  the  forage  is  nearer  to  the 
village  among  the  truck-farms — the  finest  of 
forage  and.  the  fiercest  of  dangers.  Some  of 
the  dangers  of  the  plains  were  lacking,  but  the 
greater  perils  of  men,  guns,  Dogs,  and  impassa- 
ble fences  are  much  increased.  Yet  those 
who  knew  Warhorse  best  were  not  at  all  sur- 
prised to  find  that  he  had  made  a form  in  the 
middle  of  a market-gardener’s  melon-patch. 
A score  of  dangers  beset  him  here,  but  there 
was  also  a score  of  unusual  delights  and  a 
score  of  holes  in  the  fence  for  times  when  he 
had  to  fly,  with  at  least  twoscore  of  expedients 
to  help  him  afterward. 


220 


Little  Warhorse 


III 

Newchusen  was  a typical  Western  town. 
Everywhere  in  it,  were  to  be  seen  strenuous 
efforts  at  uglification,  crowned  with  unmeas- 
ured success.  The  streets  were  straight  level 
lanes  without  curves  or  beauty-spots.  The 
houses  were  cheap  and  mean  structures  of 
flimsy  boards  and  tar  paper,  and  not  even  hon- 
est in  their  ugliness,  for  each  of  them  was  pre- 
tending to  be  something  better  than  itself. 
One  had  a false  front  to  make  it  look  like  two 
stories,  another  was  of  imitation  brick,  a third 
pretended  to  be  a marble  temple. 

But  all  agreed  in  being  the  ugliest  things 
ever  used  as  human  dwellings,  and  in  each  could 
be  read  the  owner’s  secret  thought — to  stand  it 
for  a year  or  so,  then  move  out  somewhere 
else.  The  only  beauties  of  the  place,  and  those 
unintentional,  were  the  long  lines  of  hand- 
planted  shade-trees,  uglified  as  far  as  possible 
with  whitewashed  trunks  and  croppy  heads, 
but  still  lovable,  growing,  living  things. 

The  only  building  in  town  with  a touch  of 


221 


Little  Warhorse 


picturesqueness  was  the  grain  elevator.  It 
was  not  posing  as  a Greek  temple  or  a Swiss 
chalet,  but  simply  a strong,  rough,  honest,  grain 
elevator.  At  the  end  of  each  street  was  a vista 
of  the  prairie,  with  its  farm-houses,  windmill 
pumps,  and  long  lines  of  Osage-orange  hedges. 
Here  at  least  was  something  of  interest — the 
gray-green  hedges,  thick,  sturdy,  and  high,  were 
dotted  with  their  golden  mock -oranges,  useless 
fruit,  but  more  welcome  here  than  rain  in  a 
desert ; for  these  balls  were  things  of  beauty, 
and  swung  on  their  long  tough  boughs  they 
formed  with  the  soft  green  leaves  a color-chord 
that  pleased  the  weary  eye. 

Such  a town  is  a place  to  get  out  of,  as  soon 
as  possible,  so  thought  the  traveller  who  found 
himself  laid  over  here  for  two  days  in  late  win- 
ter. He  asked  after  the  sights  of  the  place. 
A white  Muskrat  stuffed  in  a case  “down  to 
the  saloon  ” ; old  Baccy  Bullin,  who  had  been 
scalped  by  the  Indians  forty  years  ago ; and  a 
pipe  once  smoked  by  Kit  Carson,  proved  un- 
attractive, so  he  turned  toward  the  prairie,  still 
white  with  snow. 

A mark  among  the  numerous  Dog  tracks 


222 


Little  Warhorse 


caught  his  eye : it  was  the  track  of  a large 
Jack-rabbit.  He  asked  a passer-by  if  there 
were  any  Rabbits  in  town. 

“No,  I reckon  not.  I never  seen  none,” 
was  the  answer.  A mill-hand  gave  the  same 
reply,  but  a small  boy  with  a bundle  of  news- 
papers said:  “You  bet  there  is;  there  ’s  lots 
of  them  out  there  on  the  prairie,  and  they  come 
in  town  a-plenty.  Why,  there  ’s  a big,  big 
feller  lives  right  round  Si  Kalb’s  melon-patch — 
oh,  an  awful  big  feller,  and  just  as  black  and 
as  white  as  checkers  ! ” and  thus  he  sent  the 
stranger  eastward  on  his  walk. 

The  “ big,  big,  awful  big  one  ” was  the  Little 
Warhorse  himself.  He  did  n’t  live  in  Kalb’s 
melon-patch;  he  was  there  only  at  odd  times. 
He  was  not  there  now ; he  was  in  his  west- 
fronting form  or  bed,  because  a raw  east  wind 
was  setting  in.  It  was  due  east  of  Madison 
Avenue,  and  as  the  stranger  plodded  that  way 
the  Rabbit  watched  him.  As  long  as  the  man 
kept  the  road  the  Jack  was  quiet,  but  the  road 
turned  shortly  to  the  north,  and  the  man  by 
chance  left  it  and  came  straight  on.  Then 
the  Jack  saw  trouble  ahead.  The  moment  the 


223 


Little  Warhorse 


man  left  the  beaten  track,  he  bounded  from 
his  form,  and  wheeling,  he  sailed  across  the 
prairie  due  east. 

A Jack-rabbit  running  from  its  enemy  ordi- 
narily covers  eight  or  nine  feet  at  a bound,  and 
once  in  five  or  six  bounds,  it  makes  an  observa- 
tion hop,  leaping  not  along,  but  high  in  the  air, 
so  as  to  get  above  all  herbage  and  bushes  and 
take  in  the  situation.  A silly  young  Jack  will 
make  an  observation  hop  as  often  as  one  in 
four,  and  so  waste  a great  deal  of  time.  A 
clever  Jack  will  make  one  hop  in  eight  or  nine, 
do  for  observation.  But  Jack  Warhorse  as  he 
sped,  got  all  the  information  he  needed,  in  one 
hop  out  of  a dozen,  while  ten  to  fourteen  feet 
were  covered  by  each  of  his  flying  bounds.  Yet 
another  personal  peculiarity  showed  in  the 
trail  he  left.  When  a Cottontail  or  a Wood- 
hare  runs,  his  tail  is  curled  up  tight  on  his 
back,  and  does  not  touch  the  snow.  When  a 
Jack  runs,  his  tail  hangs  downward  or  back- 
ward, with  the  tip  curved  or  straight,  according 
to  the  individual ; in  some,  it  points  straight 
down,  and  so,  often  leaves  a little  stroke 
behind  the  foot-marks.  The  Warhorse’s  tail 


224 


Little  Warhorse 


of  shining  black,  was  of  unusual  length,  and  at 
every  bound,  it  left  in  the  snow,  a long  stroke, 
so  long  that  that  alone  was  almost  enough  to 
tell  which  Rabbit  had  made  the  track. 

Now  some  Rabbits  seeing  only  a man  with- 
out any  Dog  would  have  felt  little  fear,  but 
Warhorse,  remembering  some  former  stinging 
experiences  with  a far-killer,  fled  when  the  foe 
was  seventy-five  yards  away,  and  skimming 
low,  he  ran  southeast  to  a fence  that  ran  east- 
erly. Behind  this  he  went  like  a low-flying 
Hawk,  till  a mile  away  he  reached  another  of 
his  beds ; and  here,  after  an  observation  taken 
as  he  stood  on  his  heels,  he  settled  again  to 
rest. 

But  not  for  long.  In  twenty  minutes  his 
great  megaphone  ears,  so  close  to  the  ground, 
caught  a regular  sound — crunch,  crunch,  crunch 
— the  tramp  of  a human  foot,  and  he  started 
up  to  see  the  man  with  the  shining  stick  in  his 
hand,  now  drawing  near. 

Warhorse  bounded  out  and  away  for  the 
fence.  Never  once  did  he  rise  to  a “ spy-hop  ” 
till  the  wire  and  rails  were  between  him  and 
his  foe,  an  unnecessary  precaution  as  it  chanced, 


227 


Little  Warhorse 


for  the  man  was  watching  the  trail  and  saw 
nothing  of  the  Rabbit. 

Jack  skimmed  along,  keeping  low  and  look- 
ing out  for  other  enemies.  He  knew  now  that 
the  man  was  on  his  track,  and  the  old  instinct 
born  of  ancestral  trouble  with  Weasels  was 
doubtless  what  prompted  him  to  do  the  double 
trail.  He  ran  in  a long,  straight  course  to  a 
distant  fence,  followed  its  far  side  for  fifty 
yards,  then  doubling  back  he  retraced  his  trail 
and  ran  off  in  a new  direction  till  he  reached 
another  of  his  dens  or  forms.  He  had  been 
out  all  night  and  was  very  ready  to  rest,  now 
that  the  sun  was  ablaze  on  the  snow;  but  he 
had  hardly  got  the  place  a little  warmed  when 
the  “ tramp,  tramp,  tramp  ” announced  the 
enemy,  and  he  hurried  away. 

After  a half-a-mile  run  he  stopped  on  a slight 
rise  and  marked  the  man  still  following,  so  he 
made  a series  of  wonderful  quirks  in  his  trail,  a 
succession  of  blind  zigzags  that  would  have  puz- 
zled most  trailers  ; then  running  a hundred  yards 
past  a favorite  form,  he  returned  to  it  from  the 
other  side,  and  settled  to  rest,  sure  that  now  the 
enemy  would  be  finally  thrown  off  the  scent. 

228 


Little  Warhorse 

It  was  slower  than  before,  but  still  it  came— 
“tramp,  tramp,  tramp.” 

Jack  awoke,  but  sat  still.  The  man  tramped 
by  on  the  trail  one  hundred  yards  in  front  of 
him,  and  as  he  went  on,  Jack  sprang  out  un- 
seen, realizing  that  this  was  an  unusual  occa- 
sion needing  a special  effort.  They  had  gone 
in  a vast  circle  around  the  home  range  of  the 
Warhorse  and  now  were  less  than  a mile  from 
the  farm-house  of  the  black  Dog.  There  was 
that  wonderful  board  fence  with  the  happily 
planned  hen-hole.  It  was  a place  of  good 
memory — here  more  than  once  he  had  won, 
here  especially  he  had  baffled  the  Greyhound. 

These  doubtless  were  the  motive  thoughts 
rather  than  any  plan  of  playing  one  enemy 
against  another,  and  Warhorse  bounded  openly 
across  the  snow  to  the  fence  of  the  big  black 
Dog. 

The  hen-hole  was  shut,  and  Warhorse,  not  a 
little  puzzled,  sneaked  around  to  find  another, 
without  success,  until,  around  the  front,  here 
was  the  gate  wide  open,  and  inside  lying  on 
some  boards  was  the  big  Dog,  fast  asleep. 
The  Hens  were  sitting  hunched  up  in  the  warm- 


229 


Little  Warhorse 


est  corner  of  the  yard.  The  house  Cat  was 
gingerly  picking  her  way  from  barn  to  kitchen, 
as  Warhorse  halted  in  the  gateway. 

The  black  form  of  his  pursuer  was  crawling 
down  the  far  white  prairie  slope.  Jack  hopped 
quietly  into  the  yard.  A long-legged  Rooster, 
that  ought  to  have  minded  his  own  business, 
uttered  a loud  cackle  as  he  saw  the  Rabbit 
hopping  near.  The  Dog  lying  in  the  sun 
raised  his  head  and  stood  up,  and  Jack’s  peril 
was  dire.  He  squatted  low  and  turned  him- 
self into  a gray  clod.  He  did  it  cleverly,  but 
still  might  have  been  lost  but  for  the  Cat.  Un- 
wittingly, unwillingly,  she  saved  him.  The 
black  Dog  had  taken  three  steps  toward  the 
Warhorse,  though  he  did  not  know  the  Rabbit 
was  there,  and  was  now  blocking  the  only  way 
of  escape  from  the  yard,  when  the  Cat  came 
round  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  leaping  to 
a window-ledge  brought  a flower-pot  rolling 
down.  By  that  single  awkward  act  she  dis- 
turbed the  armed  neutrality  existing  between 
herself  and  the  Dog.  She  fled  to  the  barn,  and 
of  course  a flying  foe  is  all  that  is  needed  to  send 
a Dog  on  the  war-path.  They  passed  within 


230 


Little  Warhorse 


thirty  feet  of  the  crouching  Rabbit.  As  soon 
as  they  were  well  gone,  Jack  turned,  and  with- 
out even  a “Thank  you,  Pussy,”  he  fled  to  the 
open  and  away  on  the  hard-beaten  road. 

The  Cat  had  been  rescued  by  the  lady  of 
the  house ; the  Dog  was  once  more  sprawling 
on  the  boards  when  the  man  on  Jack’s  trail 
arrived.  He  carried,  not  a gun,  but  a stout 
stick,  sometimes  called  “dog-medicine,”  and 
that  was  all  that  prevented  the  Dog  attacking 
the  enemy  of  his  prey. 

This  seemed  to  be  the  end  of  the  trail.  The 
trick,  whether  planned  or  not,  was  a success, 
and  the  Rabbit  got  rid  of  his  troublesome  fol- 
lower. 

Next  day  the  stranger  made  another  search 
for  the  Jack  and  found,  not  himself,  but  his 
track.  He  knew  it  by  its  tail-mark,  its  long 
leaps  and  few  spy-hops,  but  with  it  and  run- 
ning by  it  was  the  track  of  a smaller  Rabbit. 
Here  is  where  they  met,  here  they  chased  each 
other  in  play,  for  no  signs  of  battle  were  there 
to  be  seen  ; here  they  fed  or  sat  together  in  the 
sun,  there  they  ambled  side  by  side,  and  here 
again  they  sported  in  the  snow,  always  to- 


231 


Little  Warhorse 

gether.  There  was  only  one  conclusion : this 
was  the  mating  season.  This  was  a pair  of 
Jack-rabbits — the  Little  Warhorse  and  his  mate. 


IV 


Next  summer  was  a wonderful  year  for  the 
Jack-rabbits.  A foolish  law  had  set  a bounty 
on  Hawks  and  Owls  and  had  caused  a general 
massacre  of  these  feathered  policemen.  Con- 
sequently the  Rabbits  had  multiplied  in  such 
numbers  that  they  now  were  threatening  to 
devastate  the  country. 

The  farmers,  who  were  the  sufferers  from  the 
bounty  law,  as  well  as  the  makers  of  it,  decided 
on  a great  Rabbit  drive.  All  the  county  was  in- 
vited to  come,  on  a given  morning,  to  the  main 
road  north  of  the  county,  with  the  intention  of 
sweeping  the  whole  region  up-wind  and  at 
length  driving  the  Rabbits  into  a huge  corral 
of  close  wire  netting.  Dogs  were  barred  as 
unmanageable,  and  guns  as  dangerous  in  a 
crowd ; but  every  man  and  boy  carried  a 
couple  of  long  sticks  and  a bag  full  of  stones. 
Women  came  on  horseback  and  in  buggies ; 


232 


Little  Warhorse 


many  carried  rattles  or  horns  and  tins  to  make 
a noise.  A number  of  the  buggies  trailed  a 
string  of  old  cans  or  tied  laths  to  scrape  on  the 
wheel-spokes,  and  thus  add  no  little  to  the 
deafening  clatter  of  the  drive.  As  Rabbits 
have  marvellously  sensitive  hearing,  a noise 
that  is  distracting  to  mankind,  is  likely  to  prove 
bewildering  to  them. 

The  weather  was  right,  and  at  eight  in  the 
morning  the  word  to  advance  was  given.  The 
line  was  about  five  miles  long  at  first,  and  there 
was  a man  or  a boy  every  thirty  or  forty  yards. 
The  buggies  and  riders  kept  perforce  almost 
entirely  to  the  roads;  but  the  beaters  were 
supposed,  as  a point  of  honor,  to  face  every- 
thing, and  keep  the  front  unbroken.  The  ad- 
vance was  roughly  in  three  sides  of  a square. 
Each  man  made  as  much  noise  as  he  could,  and 
threshed  every  bush  in  his  path.  A number  of 
Rabbits  hopped  out.  Some  made  for  the  lines, 
to  be  at  once  assailed  by  a shower  of  stones  that 
laid  many  of  them  low.  One  or  two  did  get 
through  and  escaped,  but  the  majority  were 
swept  before  the  drive.  At  first  the  number  seen 
was  small,  but  before  three  miles  were  covered 


2 33 


Little  Warhorse 


the  Rabbits  were  running  ahead  in  every  direc- 
tion. After  five  miles — and  that  took  about 
three  hours — the  word  for  the  wings  to  close  in 
was  given.  The  space  between  the  men  was 
shortened  up  till  they  were  less  than  ten  feet 
apart,  and  the  whole  drive  converged  on  the 
corral  with  its  two  long  guide  wings  or  fences ; 
the  end  lines  joined  these  wings,  and  the  sur- 
round was  complete.  The  drivers  marched 
rapidly  now ; scores  of  the  Rabbits  were  killed 
as  they  ran  too  near  the  beaters.  Their  bodies 
strewed  the  ground,  but  the  swarms  seemed  to 
increase  ; and  in  the  final  move,  before  the  vic- 
tims were  cooped  up  in  the  corral,  the  two-acre 
space  surrounded  was  a whirling  throng  of 
skurrying,  jumping,  bounding  Rabbits.  Round 
and  round  they  circled  and  leaped,  looking  for  a 
chance  to  escape ; but  the  inexorable  crowd 
grew  thicker  as  the  ring  grew  steadily  smaller, 
and  the  whole  swarm  was  forced  along  the  chute 
into  the  tight  corral,  some  to  squat  stupidly  in  the 
middle,  some  to  race  round  the  outer  wall,  some 
to  seek  hiding  in  corners  or  under  each  other. 

And  the  Little  Warhorse— where  was  he  in 
all  this  ? The  drive  had  swept  him  along,  and 

234 


Little  Warhorse 


he  had  been  one  of  the  first  to  enter  the  corral. 
But  a curious  plan  of  selection  had  been  estab- 
lished. The  pen  was  to  be  a death-trap  for  the 
Rabbits,  except  the  best,  the  soundest.  And 
many  were  there  that  were  unsound  ; those  that 
think  of  all  wild  animals  as  pure  and  perfect 
things,  would  have  been  shocked  to  see  how 
many  halt,  maimed,  and  diseased  there  were  in 
that  pen  of  four  thousand  or  five  thousand 
Jack-rabbits. 

It  was  a Roman  victory — the  rabble  of  pris- 
oners was  to  be  butchered.  The  choicest  were 
to  be  reserved  for  the  arena.  The  arena  ? Yes, 
that  is  the  Coursing  Park. 

In  that  corral  trap,  prepared  beforehand  for 
the  Rabbits,  were  a number  of  small  boxes 
along  the  wall,  a whole  series  of  them,  five 
hundred  at  least,  each  large  enough  to  hold 
one  Jack. 

In  the  last  rush  of  driving,  the  swiftest 
Jacks  got  first  to  the  pen.  Some  were  swift 
and  silly  ; when  once  inside  they  rushed  wildly 
round  and  round.  Some  were  swift  and  wise ; 
they  quickly  sought  the  hiding  afforded  by  the 
little  boxes ; all  of  these  were  now  full.  Thus 


235 


Little  Warhorse 


five  hundred  of  the  swiftest  and  wisest  had 
been  selected,  in,  not  by  any  means  an  infalli- 
ble way,  but  the  simplest  and  readiest.  These 
five  hundred  were  destined  to  be  coursed  by 
Greyhounds.  The  surging  mass  of  over  four 
thousand  were  ruthlessly  given  to  slaughter. 

Five  hundred  little  boxes  with  five  hundred 
bright-eyed  Jack-rabbits  were  put  on  the  train 
that  day,  and  among  them  was  Little  Jack  War- 
horse. 

V 

Rabbits  take  their  troubles  lightly,  and  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  any  great  terror  was 
felt  by  the  boxed  Jacks,  once  the  uproar  of  the 
massacre  was  over ; and  when  they  reached  the 
Coursing  Park  near  the  great  city  and  were 
turned  out  one  by  one,  very  gently, — yes,  gently ; 
the  Roman  guards  were  careful  of  their  pris- 
oners, being  responsible  for  them, — the  Jacks 
found  little  to  complain  of,  a big  inclosure  with 
plenty  of  good  food,  and  no  enemies  to  annoy 
them. 

The  very  next  morning  their  training  began. 
A score  of  hatchways  were  opened  into  a 
236 


Little  Warhorse 


much  larger  field  — the  Park.  After  a number 
of  Jacks  had  wandered  out  through  these  doors 
a rabble  of  boys  appeared  and  drove  them 
back,  pursuing  them  noisily  until  all  were  again 
in  the  smaller  field,  called  the  Haven.  A few 
days  of  this  taught  the  Jack-rabbits  that  when 
pursued  their  safety  was  to  get  back  by  one  of 
the  hatches  into  the  Haven. 

Now  the  second  lesson  began.  The  whole 
band  were  driven  out  of  a side  door  into  a long 
lane  which  led  around  three  sides  of  the  Park 
to  another  inclosure  at  the  far  end.  This  was 
the  Starting  Pen.  Its  door  into  the  arena — that 
is,  the  Park— was  opened,  the  Rabbits  driven 
forth,  and  then  a mob  of  boys  and  Dogs  in 
hiding,  burst  forth  and  pursued  them  across  the 
open.  The  whole  army  went  bobbing  and 
bounding  away,  some  of  the  younger  ones 
soaring  in  a spy-hop,  as  a matter  of  habit;  but 
low  skimming  ahead  of  them  all  was  a gor- 
geous black-and-white  one ; clean-limbed  and 
bright-eyed,  he  had  attracted  attention  in  the 
pen,  but  now  in  the  field  he  led  the  band  with 
easy  lope  that  put  him  as  far  ahead  of  them  all  as 
they  were  ahead  of  the  rabble  of  common  Dogs. 


237 


Little  Warhorse 


“ Luk  at  thot,  would  ye — but  ain’t  he  a Little 
Warhorse?”  shouted  a villainous-looking  Irish 
stable-boy,  and  thus  he  was  named.  When  half- 
way across  the  course  the  Jacks  remembered 
the  Haven,  and  all  swept  toward  it  and  in  like  a 
snow-cloud  over  the  drifts. 

This  was  the  second  lesson — to  lead  straight 
for  the  Haven  as  soon  as  driven  from  the  Pen. 
In  a week  all  had  learned  it,  and  were  ready  for 
the  great  opening  meet  of  the  Coursing  Club. 

The  Little  Warhorse  was  now  well  known  to 
the  grooms  and  hangers-on ; his  colors  usually 
marked  him  clearly,  and  his  leadership  was  in 
a measure  recognized  by  the  long-eared  herd 
that  fled  with  him.  He  figured  more  or  less 
with  the  Dogs  in  the  talk  and  betting  of  the 
men. 

“ Wonder  if  old  Dignam  is  going  to  enter 
Minkie  this  year?  ” 

“ Faix,  an’  if  he  does  I bet  the  Little  Warr- 
horrse  will  take  the  gimp  out  av  her  an’  her 
runnin’  mate.” 

“I  ’ll  bet  three  to  one  that  my  old  Jen  will 
pick  the  Warhorse  up  before  he  passes  the 
grand  stand,”  growled  a dog-man. 

238 


Little  Warhorse 


“ An’  it ’s  meself  will  take  thot  bet  in  dollars,” 
said  Mickey,  “ an’,  moore  than  thot,  Oi  ’ll  put  up 
a hull  month’s  stuff  thot  there  ain’t  a dog  in 
the  mate  thot  kin  turrn  the  Warrhorrse  oncet  on 
the  hull  coorse.” 

So  they  wrangled  and  wagered,  but  each  day, 
as  they  put  the  Rabbits  through  their  paces, 
there  were  more  of  those  who  believed  that 
they  had  found  a wonderful  runner  in  the  War- 
horse,  one  that  would  give  the  best  Greyhounds 
something  that  is  rarely  seen,  a straight  stern 
chase  from  Start  to  Grand  Stand  and  Haven. 


The  first  morning  of  the  meet  arrived  bright 
and  promising.  The  Grand  Stand  was  filled 
with  a city  crowd.  The  usual  types  of  a race- 
course appeared  in  force.  Here  and  there 
were  to  be  seen  the  dog-grooms  leading  in 
leash  single  Greyhounds  or  couples,  shrouded 
in  blankets,  but  showing  their  sinewy  legs,  their 
snaky  necks,  their  shapely  heads  with  long 
reptilian  jaws,  and  their  quick,  nervous  yellow 
eyes  — hybrids  of  natural  force  and  human 


VI 


239 


Little  Warhorse 


ingenuity,  the  most  wonderful  running-machines 
ever  made  of  flesh  and  blood.  Their  keepers 
guarded  them  like  jewels,  tended  them  like 
babies,  and  were  careful  to  keep  them  from 
picking  up  odd  eatables,  as  well  as  prevent 
them  smelling  unusual  objects  or  being  ap- 
proached by  strangers.  Large  sums  were  wa- 
gered on  these  Dogs,  and  a cunningly  placed 
tack,  a piece  of  doctored  meat,  yes,  an  artfully 
compounded  smell,  has  been  known  to  turn  a 
superb  young  runner  into  a lifeless  laggard,  and 
to  the  owner  this  might  spell  ruin.  The  Dogs 
entered  in  each  class  are  paired  off,  as  each 
contest  is  supposed  to  be  a duel ; the  winners 
in  the  first  series  are  then  paired  again.  In 
each  trial,  a Jack  is  driven  from  the  Starting- 
pen  ; close  by  in  one  leash  are  the  rival  Dogs, 
held  by  the  slipper.  As  soon  as  the  Hare  is 
well  away,  the  man  has  to  get  the  Dogs  evenly 
started  and  slip  them  together.  On  the  field  is 
the  judge,  scarlet-coated  and  well  mounted. 
He  follows  the  chase.  The  Hare,  mindful  of 
his  training,  speeds  across  the  open,  toward 
the  Haven,  in  full  view  of  the  Grand  Stand. 
The  Dogs  follow  the  Jack.  As  the  first  one 


240 


Little  Warhorse 


comes  near  enough  to  be  dangerous,  the  Hare 
balks  him  by  dodging.  Each  time  the  Hare 
is  turned,  scores  for  the  Dog  that  did  it,  and  a 
final  point  is  made  by  the  kill. 

Sometimes  the  kill  takes  place  within  one 
hundred  yards  of  the  start — that  means  a poor 
Jack;  mostly  it  happens  in  front  of  the 
Grand  Stand ; but  on  rare  occasions  it  chances 
that  the  Jack  goes  sailing  across  the  open  Park 
a good  half-mile  and,  by  dodging  for  time,  runs 
to  safety  in  the  Haven.  Four  finishes  are  pos- 
sible : a speedy  kill ; a speedy  winning  of  the 
Haven ; new  Dogs  to  relieve  the  first  runners, 
who  would  suffer  heart-collapse  in  the  terrific 
strain  of  their  pace,  if  kept  up  many  minutes  in 
hot  weather;  and  finally,  for  Rabbits  that  by 
continued  dodging  defy  and  jeopardize  the 
Dogs,  and  yet  do  not  win  the  Haven,  there  is 
kept  a loaded  shotgun. 

There  is  just  as  much  jockeying  at  a Kas- 
kado  coursing  as  at  a Kaskado  horse-race, 
just  as  many  attempts  at  fraud,  and  it  is  just  as 
necessary  to  have  the  judge  and  slipper  beyond 
suspicion. 

The  day  before  the  next  meet  a man  of  dia- 


241 


Little  Warhorse 

monds  saw  Irish  Mickey — by  chance.  A cigar 
was  all  that  visibly  passed,  but  it  had  a green 
wrapper  that  was  slipped  off  before  lighting. 
Then  a word : “ If  you  wuz  slipper  to-morrow 
and  it  so  came  about  that  Dignam’s  Minkie  gets 
done,  wall, — it  means  another  cigar.” 

“ Faix,  an’  if  I wuz  slipper  I could  load  the 
dice  so  Minkie  would  niver  score  a p’int,  but  her 
runnin’  mate  would  have  the  same  bad  luck.” 
“That  so?”  The  diamond  man  looked  in- 
terested. “All  right  — fix  it  so;  it  means  two 
cigars.” 

Slipper  Sly  man  had  always  dealt  on  the 
square,  had  scorned  many  approaches — that 
was  well  known.  Most  believed  in  him,  but 
there  were  some  malcontents,  and  when  a man 
with  many  gold  seals  approached  the  Steward 
and  formulated  charges,  serious  and  well- 
backed,  they  must  perforce  suspend  the  slipper 
pending  an  inquiry,  and  thus  Mickey  Doo 
reigned  in  his  stead. 

Mickey  was  poor  and  not  over-scrupulous. 
Here  was  a chance  to  make  a year’s  pay  in  a 
minute,  nothing  wrong  about  it,  no  harm  to  the 
Dog  or  the  Rabbit  either. 


242 


Little  Warhorse 


One  Jack-rabbit  is  much  like  another. 
Everybody  knows  that ; it  was  simply  a ques- 
tion of  choosing  your  Jack. 

The  preliminaries  were  over.  Fifty  Jacks  had 
been  run  and  killed.  Mickey  had  done  his  work 
satisfactorily  ; a fair  slip  had  been  given  to  every 
leash.  He  was  still  in  command  as  slipper. 
Now  came  the  final  for  the  cup  — the  cup  and 
the  large  stakes. 

VII 

There  were  the  slim  and  elegant  Dogs  await- 
ing their  turn.  Minkie  and  her  rival  were  first. 
Everything  had  been  fair  so  far,  and  who  can 
say  that  what  followed  was  unfair  ? Mickey 
could  turn  out  which  Jack  he  pleased. 

“ Number  three!  ” he  called  to  his  partner. 

Out  leaped  the  Little  Warhorse, — black  and 
white  his  great  ears,  easy  and  low  his  five-foot 
bounds ; gazing  wildly  at  the  unwonted  crowd 
about  the  Park,  he  leaped  high  in  one  surpris- 
ing spy-hop. 

“ Hrrrrr!  ” shouted  the  slipper,  and  his  part- 
ner rattled  a stick  on  the  fence.  The  War- 
horse’s  bounds  increased  to  eight  or  nine  feet. 

243 


Little  Warhorse 


“ Hrrrrrr!  ” and  they  were  ten  or  twelve  feet. 
At  thirty  yards  the  Hounds  were  slipped — an 
even  slip ; some  thought  it  could  have  been 
done  at  twenty  yards. 

“ Hrrrrrr!  Hrrrrrrr!  ” and  the  Warhorse 
was  doing  fourteen-foot  leaps,  not  a spy-hop 
among  them. 

“ Hrrrrr!  ” wonderful  Dogs!  how  they  sailed ; 
but  drifting  ahead  of  them,  like  a white  sea- 
bird or  flying  scud,  was  the  Warhorse.  Away 
past  the  Grand  Stand.  And  the  Dogs — were 
they  closing  the  gap  of  start?  Closing!  It  was 
lengthening!  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell 
it,  that  black-and-white  thistledown  had  drifted 
away  through  the  Haven  door, — the  door  so 
like  that  good  old  hen-hole,— and  the  Grey- 
hounds pulled  up  amidst  a roar  of  derision  and 
cheers  for  the  Little  Warhorse.  How  Mickey  did 
laugh ! How  Dignam  did  swear ! How  the  news- 
paper men  did  scribble  — scribble  — scribble ! 

Next  day  there  was  a paragraph  in  all  the 
papers:  “Wonderful  Feat  of  a Jack- 

rabbit.  The  Little  Warhorse,  as  he  has  been 
styled,  completely  skunked  two  of  the  most 
famous  Dogs  on  the  turf,”  etc. 


244 


Little  Warhorse 


There  was  a fierce  wrangle  among  the  dog- 
men.  This  was  a tie,  since  neither  had  scored, 
and  Minkie  and  her  rival  were  allowed  to  run 
again ; but  that  half-mile  had  been  too  hot,  and 
they  had  no  show  for  the  cup. 

Mickey  met  “ Diamonds  ” next  day,  by 
chance. 

11  Have  a cigar,  Mickey.” 

“ Oi  will  thot,  sor.  Faix,  thim ’s  so  foine,  I ’d 
loike  two  — thank  ye,  sor.” 

VIII 

From  that  time  the  Little  Warhorse  became 
the  pride  of  the  Irish  boy.  Slipper  Slyman  had 
been  honorably  reinstated  and  Mickey  reduced 
to  the  rank  of  Jack-starter,  but  that  merely 
helped  to  turn  his  sympathies  from  the  Dogs  to 
the  Rabbits,  or  rather  to  the  Warhorse,  for  of 
all  the  five  hundred  that  were  brought  in  from 
the  drive  he  alone  had  won  renown.  There 
were  several  that  crossed  the  Park  to  run 
again  another  day,  but  he  alone  had  crossed 
the  course  without  getting  even  a turn.  Twice 
a week  the  meets  took  place ; forty  or  fifty  Jacks 


245 


Little  Warhorse 


were  killed  each  time,  and  the  five  hundred  in 
the  pen  had  been  nearly  all  eaten  of  the  arena. 

The  Warhorse  had  run  each  day,  and  as 
often  had  made  the  Haven.  Mickey  became 
wildly  enthusiastic  about  his  favorite’s  powers. 
He  begot  a positive  affection  for  the  clean- 
limbed racer,  and  stoutly  maintained  against 
all  that  it  was  a positive  honor  to  a Dog  to  be 
disgraced  by  such  a Jack. 

It  is  so  seldom  that  a Rabbit  crosses  the 
track  at  all,  that  when  Jack  did  it  six  times 
without  having  to  dodge,  the  papers  took  note 
of  it,  and  after  each  meet  there  appeared  a no- 
tice : “ The  Little  Warhorse  crossed  again  to- 
day ; old-timers  say  it  shows  how  our  Dogs  are 
deteriorating.” 

After  the  sixth  time  the  rabbit-keepers  grew 
enthusiastic,  and  Mickey,  commander-in-chief 
of  the  brigade,  became  intemperate  in  his 
admiration.  “ Be  jabers,  he  has  a right  to  be 
torned  loose.  He  has  won  his  freedom  loike 
ivery  Amerikin  done,”  he  added,  by  way  of 
appeal  to  the  patriotism  of  the  Steward  of  the 
race,  who  was,  of  course,  the  real  owner  of  the 
Jacks. 


246 


Little  Warhorse 

“All  right,  Mick;  if  he  gets  across  thirteen 
times  you  can  ship  him  back  to  his  native  land,” 
was  the  reply. 

“ Shure  now,  an’  won’t  you  make  it  tin, 
sor?  ” 

“ No,  no  ; I need  him  to  take  the  conceit  out 
of  some  of  the  new  Dogs  that  are  coming.” 

“ Thirteen  toimes  and  he  is  free,  sor ; it ’s  a 
bargain.” 

A new  lot  of  Rabbits  arrived  about  this  time, 
and  one  of  these  was  colored  much  like  Little 
Warhorse.  He  had  no  such  speed,  but  to  pre- 
vent mistakes  Mickey  caught  his  favorite  by 
driving  him  into  one  of  the  padded  shipping- 
boxes,  and  proceeded  with  the  gate-keeper’s 
punch  to  earmark  him.  The  punch  was  sharp  ; 
a clear  star  was  cut  out  of  the  thin  flap,  when 
Mickey  exclaimed : “ Faix,  an’  Oi  ’ll  punch  for 
ivery  toime  ye  cross  the  coorse.”  So  he  cut  six 
stars  in  a row.  “ Thayer  now,  Warrhorrse, 
shure  it ’s  a free  Rabbit  ye  ’ll  be  when  ye  have 
yer  thirteen  stars  loike  our  flag  of  liberty  hed 
when  we  got  free.” 

Within  a week  the  Warhorse  had  vanquished 
the  new  Greyhounds  and  had  stars  enough  to 
247 


Little  Warhorse 


go  round  the  right  ear  and  begin  on  the  left. 
In  a week  more  the  thirteen  runs  were  com- 
pleted, six  stars  in  the  left  ear  and  seven  in  the 
right,  and  the  newspapers  had  new  material. 

“Whoop!”  How  Mickey  hoorayed!  “An’ 
it ’s  a free  Jack  ye  are,  Warrhorrse!  Thirteen 
always  wuz  a lucky  number.  I never  knowed 
it  to  fail.” 

IX 


“Yes,  I know  I did,”  said  the  Steward. 
“ But  I want  to  give  him  one  more  run.  I 
have  a bet  on  him  against  a new  Dog  here.  It 
won’t  hurt  him  now ; he  can  do  it.  Oh,  well. 
Here  now,  Mickey,  don’t  you  get  sassy.  One 
run  more  this  afternoon.  The  Dogs  run  two 
or  three  times  a day  ; why  not  the  Jack?” 

“ They  ’re  not  shtakin’  thayre  loives,  sor.” 

“ Oh,  you  get  out.” 

Many  more  Rabbits  had  been  added  to  the 
pen, — big  and  small,  peaceful  and  warlike, — 
and  one  big  Buck  of  savage  instincts,  seeing 
Jack  Warhorse’s  hurried  dash  into  the  Haven 
that  morning,  took  advantage  of  the  moment 
to  attack  him. 

248 


Little  Warhorse 

At  another  time  Jack  would  have  thumped 
his  skull,  as  he  once  did  the  Cat’s,  and  settled 
the  affair  in  a minute ; but  now  it  took  several 
minutes,  during  which  he  himself  got  roughly 
handled ; so  when  the  afternoon  came  he  was 
suffering  from  one  or  two  bruises  and  stiffening 
wounds;  not  serious,  indeed,  but  enough  to 
lower  his  speed. 

The  start  was  much  like  those  of  previous 
runs.  The  Warhorse  steaming  away  low  and 
lightly,  his  ears  up  and  the  breezes  whistling 
through  his  thirteen  stars. 

Minkie  with  Fango,  the  new  Dog,  bounded 
in  eager  pursuit,  but,  to  the  surprise  of  the 
starters,  the  gap  grew  smaller.  The  Warhorse 
was  losing  ground,  and  right  before  the  Grand 
Stand  old  Minkie  turned  him,  and  a cheer 
went  up  from  the  dog-men,  for  all  knew  the 
runners.  Within  fifty  yards  Fango  scored  a 
turn,  and  the  race  was  right  back  to  the  start. 
There  stood  Slyman  and  Mickey.  The  Rab- 
bit dodged,  the  Greyhounds  plunged;  Jack 
could  not  get  away,  and  just  as  the  final  snap 
seemed  near,  the  Warhorse  leaped  straight 
for  Mickey,  and  in  an  instant  was  hidden  in  his 


249 


Little  Warhorse 


arms,  while  the  starter’s  feet  flew  out  in  ener- 
getic kicks  to  repel  the  furious  Dogs.  It  is  not 
likely  that  the  Jack  knew  Mickey  for  a friend; 
he  only  yielded  to  the  old  instinct  to  fly  from  a 
certain  enemy  to  a neutral  or  a possible  friend, 
and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  he  had  wisely  leaped 
and  well.  A cheer  went  up  from  the  benches 
as  Mickey  hurried  back  with  his  favorite. 
But  the  dog-men  protested  “ it  was  n’t  a fair 
run  — they  wanted  it  finished.”  They  appealed 
to  the  Steward.  He  had  backed  the  Jack 
against  Fango.  He  was  sore  now,  and  ordered 
a new  race. 

An  hour’s  rest  was  the  best  Mickey  could  get 
for  him.  Then  he  went  as  before,  with  Fango 
and  Minkie  in  pursuit.  He  seemed  less  stiff 
now — he  ran  more  like  himself ; but  a little  past 
the  Stand  he  was  turned  by  Fango  and  again 
by  Minkie,  and  back  and  across,  and  here  and 
there,  leaping  frantically  and  barely  eluding  his 
foes.  For  several  minutes  it  lasted.  Mickey 
could  see  that  J ack’s  ears  were  sinking.  The  new 
Dog  leaped.  Jack  dodged  almost  under  him  to 
escape,  and  back  only  to  meet  the  second  Dog ; 
and  now  both  ears  were  flat  on  his  back.  But 


250 


Little  Warhorse 


the  Hounds  were  suffering  too.  Their  tongues 
were  lolling  out ; their  jaws  and  heaving  sides 
were  splashed  with  foam.  The  Warhorse’s  ears 
went  up  again.  His  courage  seemed  to  revive 
in  their  distress.  He  made  a straight  dash  for 
the  Haven  ; but  the  straight  dash  was  just  what 
the  Hounds  could  do,  and  within  a hundred 
yards  he  was  turned  again,  to  begin  another 
desperate  game  of  zigzag.  Then  the  dog-men 
saw  danger  for  their  Dogs,  and  two  new  ones 
were  slipped  — two  fresh  Hounds;  surely  they 
could  end  the  race.  But  they  did  not.  The 
first  two  were  vanquished— gasping — out  of  it, 
but  the  next  two  were  racing  near.  The  War- 
horse  put  forth  all  his  strength.  He  left  the 
first  two  far  behind — was  nearly  to  the  Haven 
when  the  second  two  came  up. 

Nothing  but  dodging  could  save  him  now. 
His  ears  were  sinking,  his  heart  was  patter- 
ing on  his  ribs,  but  his  spirit  was  strong. 
He  flung  himself  in  wildest  zigzags.  The 
Hounds  tumbled  over  each  other.  Again  and 
again  they  thought  they  had  him.  One  of 
them  snapped  off  the  end  of  his  long  black  tail, 
yet  he  escaped ; but  he  could  not  get  to  the 


251 


Little  Warhorse 


Haven.  The  luck  was  against  him.  He  was 
forced  nearer  to  the  Grand  Stand.  A thousand 
ladies  were  watching.  The  time  limit  was  up. 
The  second  Dogs  were  suffering,  when  Mickey 
came  running,  yelling  like  a madman — words 
— imprecations — crazy  sounds: 

“ Ye  blackguard  hoodlums  ! Ye  dhirty,  cow- 
ardly bastes ! ” and  he  rushed  furiously  at  the 
Dogs,  intent  to  do  them  bodily  harm. 

Officers  came  running  and  shouting,  and 
Mickey,  shrieking  hatred  and  defiance,  was 
dragged  from  the  field,  reviling  Dogs  and  men 
with  every  horrid,  insulting  name  he  could  think 
of  or  invent. 

“ Fair  play ! Whayer ’s  yer  fair  play,  ye  liars, 
ye  dhirty  cheats,  ye  bloody  cowards!”  And 
they  drove  him  from  the  arena.  The  last  he  saw 
of  it  was  the  four  foaming  Dogs  feebly  dodging 
after  a weak  and  worn-out  Jack-rabbit,  and  the 
judge  on  his  Horse  beckoning  to  the  man  with 
the  gun. 

The  gate  closed  behind  him,  and  Mickey 
heard  a bang — bang , an  unusual  uproar  mixed 
with  yelps  of  Dogs,  and  he  knew  that  Little  Jack 
Warhorse  had  been  served  with  finish  No.  4. 

252 


X 


(<>>  „ S v,r, 


The  second  Dogs  were  suffering. 


Little  Warhorse 


All  his  life  he  had  loved  Dogs,  but  his  sense 
of  fair  play  was  outraged.  He  could  not  get 
in,  nor  see  in  from  where  he  was.  He  raced 
along  the  lane  to  the  Haven,  where  he  might 
get  a good  view,  and  arrived  in  time  to  see  — 

Little  Jack  Warhorse  with  his  half-masted  ears 
limp  into  the  Haven ; and  he  realized  at  once 
that  the  man  with  the  gun  had  missed,  had  hit 
the  wrong  runner,  for  there  was  the  crowd  at 
the  Stand  watching  two  men  who  were  carrying 
a wounded  Greyhound,  while  a veterinary  sur- 
geon was  ministering  to  another  that  was  pant- 
ing on  the  ground. 

Mickey  looked  about,  seized  a little  shipping- 
box,  put  it  at  the  angle  of  the  Haven,  carefully 
drove  the  tired  thing  into  it,  closed  the  lid, 
then,  with  the  box  under  his  arm,  he  scaled  the 
fence  unseen  in  the  confusion  and  was  gone. 

‘ It  did  n’t  matter;  he  had  lost  his  job  any- 
way.’ He  tramped  away  from  the  city.  He 
took  the  train  at  the  nearest  station  and  trav- 
elled some  hours,  and  now  he  was  in  Rabbit 
country  again.  The  sun  had  long  gone  down  ; 
the  night  with  its  stars  was  over  the  plain  when 
among  the  farms,  the  Osage  and  alfalfa,  Mickey 

255 

/ 

>>  C4 

> 


l 


Little  Warhorse 

Doo  opened  the  box  and  gently  put  the  War- 
horse  out. 

Grinning  as  he  did  so,  he  said : “ Shure  an’ 
it  ’s  ould  Oireland  thot  ’s  proud  to  set  the 
thirteen  stars  at  liberty  wance  moore.” 

For  a moment  the  Little  Warhorse  gazed  in 
doubt,  then  took  three  or  four  long  leaps  and  a 
spy-hop  to  get  his  bearings.  Now  spreading 
his  national  colors  and  his  honor-marked 
ears,  he  bounded  into  his  hard-won  freedom, 
strong  as  ever,  and  melted  into  the  night  of 
his  native  plain. 

He  has  been  seen  many  times  in  Kaskado, 
and  there  have  been  many  Rabbit  drives  in 
that  region,  but  he  seems  to  know  some  means 
of  baffling  them  now,  for,  in  all  the  thousands 
that  have  been  trapped  and  corralled,  they 
have  never  since  seen  the  star-spangled  ears  of 
Little  j ack  Warhorse. 


Snap 

The  Story  of  a Bull-terrier 


I 

T was  dusk  on  Hallowe’en 
when  first  I saw  him.  Early 
in  the  morning  I had  re- 
ceived a telegram  from  my 
college  chum  Jack:  “Lest 
we  forget.  Am  sending  you 
a remarkable  pup.  Be  polite 
to  him ; it ’s  safer.”  It  would  have  been  just 
like  Jack  to  have  sent  an  infernal  machine  or  a 
Skunk  rampant  and  called  it  a pup,  so  I awaited 
the  hamper  with  curiosity.  When  it  arrived  I 
saw  it  was  marked  “ Dangerous,”  and  there 
came  from  within  a high-pitched  snarl  at  every 


259 


Snap 


A 


1/ 


slight  provocation.  On  peering  through  the 
wire  netting  I saw  it  was  not  a baby  Tiger  but  a 
small  white  Bull-terrier.  He  snapped  at  me  and 
at  any  one  or  anything  that  seemed  too  abrupt 
or  too  near  for  proper  respect,  and  his  snarling 
growl  was  unpleasantly  frequent.  Dogs  have 
two  growls : one  deep-rumbled,  and  chesty ; 
that  is  polite  warning — the  retort  courteous; 
the  other  mouthy  and  much  higher  in  pitch : 
this  is  the  last  word  before  actual  onslaught. 
The  Terrier’s  growls  were  all  of  the  latter  kind. 
I was  a dog-man  and  thought  I knew  all  about 
Dogs,  so,  dismissing  the  porter,  I got  out  my  all- 
round jackknife  - toothpick  - nailhammer-hatch- 
et-toolbox-fire-shovel,  a specialty  of  our  firm, 
and  lifted  the  netting.  Oh,  yes,  I knew  all  about 
Dogs.  The  little  fury  had  been  growling  out 
a whole-souled  growl  for  every  tap  of  the  tool, 
and  when  I turned  the  box  on  its  side,  he  made 
a dash  straight  for  my  legs.  Had  not  his  foot 
gone  through  the  wire  netting  and  held  him,  I 
might  have  been  hurt,  for  his  heart  was  evi- 
dently in  his  work  ; but  I stepped  on  the  table 
out  of  reach  and  tried  to  reason  with  him.  I 
have  always  believed  in  talking  to  animals.  I 
260 


Snap 

maintain  that  they  gather  something  of  our  in- 
tention at  least,  even  if  they  do  not  understand 
our  words ; but  the  Dog  evidently  put  me  down 
for  a hypocrite  and  scorned  my  approaches.  At 
first  he  took  his  post  under  the  table  and  kept 
up  a circular  watch  for  a leg  trying  to  get  down. 
I felt  sure  I could  have  controlled  him  with 
my  eye,  but  I could  not  bring  it  to  bear  where 
I was,  or  rather  where  he  was ; thus  I was  left 
a prisoner.  I am  a very  cool  person,  I flatter 
myself ; in  fact,  I represent  a hardware  firm, 
and,  in  coolness,  we  are  not  excelled  by  any  but 
perhaps  the  nosy  gentlemen  that  sell  wearing- 
apparel.  I got  out  a cigar  and  smoked  tailor- 
style  on  the  table,  while  my  little  tyrant  below 
kept  watch  for  legs.  I got  out  the  telegram 
and  read  it : “ Remarkable  pup.  Be  polite  to 
him ; it ’s  safer.”  I think  it  was  my  coolness 
rather  than  my  politeness  that  did  it,  for  in 
half  an  hour  the  growling  ceased.  In  an  hour 
he  no  longer  jumped  at  a newspaper  cautiously 
pushed  over  the  edge  to  test  his  humor ; possibly 
the  irritation  of  the  cage  was  wearing  off,  and 
by  the  time  I had  lit  my  third  cigar,  he  waddled 
out  to  the  fire  and  lay  down ; not  ignoring  me, 
261 


Snap 

however,  I had  no  reason  to  complain  of  that 
kind  of  contempt.  He  kept  one  eye  on  me, 
and  I kept  both  eyes,  not  on  him,  but  on  his 
stumpy  tail.  If  that  tail  should  swing  sidewise 
once  I should  feel  I was  winning ; but  it  did 
not  swing.  I got  a book  and  put  in  time  on 
that  table  till  my  legs  were  cramped  and  the 
fire  burned  low.  About  io  p.m.  it  was  chilly, 
and  at  half-past  ten  the  fire  was  out.  My 
Hallowe’en  present  got  up,  yawned  and 
stretched,  then  walked  under  my  bed,  where  he 
found  a fur  rug.  By  stepping  lightly  from  the 
table  to  the  dresser,  and  then  on  to  the  mantel- 
shelf, I also  reached  bed,  and,  very  quietly  un- 
dressing, got  in  without  provoking  any  criticism 
from  my  master.  I had  not  yet  fallen  asleep 
when  I heard  a slight  scrambling  and  felt 
“ thump-thump  ” on  the  bed,  then  over  my  feet 
and  legs ; Snap  evidently  had  found  it  too  cool 
down  below,  and  proposed  to  have  the  best 
my  house  afforded. 

He  curled  up  on  my  feet  in  such  a way  that 
I was  very  uncomfortable  and  tried  to  readjust 
matters,  but  the  slightest  wriggle  of  my  toe  was 
enough,  to  make  him  snap  at  it  so  fiercely  that 
262 


Snap 

nothing  but  thick  woollen  bedclothes  saved  me 
from  being  maimed  for  life. 

I was  an  hour  moving  my  feet— a hair’s- 
breadth  at  a time — till  they  were  so  that  I could 
sleep  in  comfort ; and  I was  awakened  several 
times  during  the  night  by  angry  snarls  from 
the  Dog — I suppose  because  I dared  to  move 
a toe  without  his  approval,  though  once  I be- 
lieve he  did  it  simply  because  I was  snoring. 

In  the  morning  I was  ready  to  get  up  before 
Snap  was.  You  see,  I call  him  Snap — Ginger- 
snap  in  full.  Some  Dogs  are  hard  to  name, 
and  some  do  not  seem  to  need  it — they  name 
themselves. 

I was  ready  to  rise  at  seven.  Snap  was  not 
ready  till  eight,  so  we  rose  at  eight.  He  had 
little  to  say  to  the  man  who  made  the  fire. 
He  allowed  me  to  dress  without  doing  it  on 
the  table.  As  I left  the  room  to  get  breakfast, 
I remarked : 

“ Snap,  my  friend,  some  men  would  whip 
you  into  a different  way,  but  I think  I know 
a better  plan.  The  doctors  nowadays  favor 
the  ‘no-breakfast  cure.’  I shall  try  that.” 

It  seemed  cruel,  but  I left  him  without  food 
263 


1*0  Doc/ar 
G ■ chyuitk 
•SAnj.tariuni 


I 


,1 


I 


Snap 

all  day.  It  cost  me  something  to  repaint  the 
door  where  he  scratched  it,  but  at  night  he  was 
quite  ready  to  accept  a little  food  at  my  hands. 

In  a week  we  were  very  good  friends.  He 
would  sleep  on  my  bed  now  and  allow  me  to 
move  my  feet  without  snapping  at  them, 
intent  to  do  me  serious  bodily  harm.  The  no- 
breakfast cure  had  worked  wonders;  in  three 
months  we  were — well,  simply  man  and  Dog, 
and  he  amply  justified  the  telegram  he  came 
with. 

He  seemed  to  be  without  fear.  If  a small 
Dog  came  near,  he  would  take  not  the  slight- 
est notice ; if  a medium-sized  Dog,  he  would 
stick  his  stub  of  a tail  rigidly  up  in  the  air, 
then  walk  around  him,  scratching  contemptu- 
ously with  his  hind  feet,  and  looking  at  the 
sky,  the  distance,  the  ground,  anything  but  the 
Dog,  and  noting  his  presence  only  by  frequent 
high-pitched  growls.  If  the  stranger  did  not 
move  on  at  once,  the  battle  began,  and  then 
the  stranger  usually  moved  on  very  rapidly. 
Snap  sometimes  got  worsted,  but  no  amount  of 
sad  experience  could  ever  inspire  him  with  a 
grain  of  caution.  Once,  while  riding  in  a cab 
264 


Snap. 


Snap 


during  the  Dog  Show,  Snap  caught  sight  of  an 
elephantine  St.  Bernard  taking  an  airing.  Its 
size  aroused  such  enthusiasm  in  the  Pup’s  little 
breast  that  he  leaped  from  the  cab  window  to 
do  battle,  and  broke  his  leg. 

Evidently  fear  had  been  left  out  of  his 
make-up  and  its  place  supplied  with  an  extra 
amount  of  ginger,  which  was  the  reason  of  his 
full  name.  He  differed  from  all  other  Dogs  I 
have  ever  known.  For  example,  if  a boy 
threw  a stone  at  him,  he  ran,  not  away,  but 
toward  the  boy,  and  if  the  crime  was  repeated, 
Snap  took  the  law  into  his  own  hands ; thus  he 
was  at  least  respected  by  all.  Only  myself 
and  the  porter  at  the  office  seemed  to  realize 
his  good  points,  and  we  only  were  admitted 
tc  the  high  honor  of  personal  friendship,  an 
honor  which  I appreciated  more  as  months 
went  on,  and  by  midsummer  not  Carnegie, 
Vanderbilt,  and  Astor  together  could  have 
raised  money  enough  to  buy  a quarter  of  a 
share  in  my  little  Dog  Snap, 


267 


Snap 


II 

Though  not  a regular  traveller,  I was  or- 
dered out  on  the  road  in  the  autumn,  and  then 
Snap  and  the  landlady  were  left  together,  with 
unfortunate  developments.  Contempt  on  his 
part — fear  on  hers;  and  hate  on  both. 

I was  placing  a lot  of  barb-wire  in  the  north- 
ern tier  of  States.  My  letters  were  forwarded 
once  a week,  and  I got  several  complaints 
from  the  landlady  about  Snap. 

Arrived  at  Mendoza,  in  North  Dakota,  I 
found  a fine  market  for  wire.  Of  course  my 
dealings  were  with  the  big  storekeepers,  but  I 
went  about  among  the  ranchmen  to  get  their 
practical  views  on  the  different  styles,  and  thus 
I met  the  Penroof  Brothers’  Cow-outfit. 

One  cannot  be  long  in  Cow  country  now 
without  hearing  a great  deal  about  the  depre- 
dations of  the  ever  wily  and  destructive  Gray- 
wolf.  The  day  has  gone  by  when  they  can 
be  poisoned  wholesale,  and  they  are  a serious 
drain  on  the  rancher’s  profits.  The  Penroof 
Brothers,  like  most  live  cattle-men,  had  given 
268 


Snap 

up  all  attempts  at  poisoning  and  trapping,  and 
were  trying  various  breeds  of  Dogs  as  Wolf- 
hunters,  hoping  to  get  a little  sport  out  of  the 
necessary  work  of  destroying  the  pests. 

Foxhounds  had  failed — they  were  too  soft 
for  fighting;  Great  Danes  were  too  clumsy, 
and  Greyhounds  could  not  follow  the  game 
unless  they  could  see  it.  Each  breed  had 
some  fatal  defect,  but  the  cow-men  hoped  to 
succeed  with  a mixed  pack,  and  the  day  when 
I was  invited  to  join  in  a Mendoza  Wolf-hunt, 
I was  amused  by  the  variety  of  Dogs  that 
followed.  There  were  several  mongrels,  but 
there  were  also  a few  highly  bred  Dogs — in 
particular,  some  Russian  Wolfhounds  that  must 
have  cost  a lot  of  money. 

Hilton  Penroof,  the  oldest  boy,  “ The  Master 
of  Hounds,”  was  unusually  proud  of  them,  and 
expected  them  to  do  great  things. 

“ Greyhounds  are  too  thin-skinned  to  fight 
a Wolf,  Danes  are  too  slow,  but  you  ’ll  see  the 
fur  fly  when  the  Russians  take  a hand.” 

Thus  the  Greyhounds  were  there  as  runners, 
the  Danes  as  heavy  backers,  and  the  Russians 
to  do  the  important  fighting.  There  were  also 
269 


Snap 

two  or  three  Foxhounds,  whose  fine  noses  were 
relied  on  to  follow  the  trail  if  the  game  got 
out  of  view. 

It  was  a fine  sight  as  we  rode  away  among 
the  Badland  Buttes  that  October  day.  The 
air  was  bright  and  crisp,  and  though  so  late, 
there  was  neither  snow  nor  frost.  The  Horses 
were  fresh,  and  once  or  twice  showed  me  how 
a Cow-pony  tries  to  get  rid  of  his  rider. 

The  Dogs  were  keen  for  sport,  and  we  did 
start  one  or  two  gray  spots  in  the  plain  that 
Hilton  said  were  Wolves  or  Coyotes.  The 
Dogs  trailed  away  at  full  cry,  but  at  night,  be- 
yond the  fact  that  one  of  the  Greyhounds  had 
a wound  on  his  shoulder,  there  was  nothing  to 
show  that  any  of  them  had  been  on  a Wolf-hunt. 

“ It  ’s  my  opinion  yer  fancy  Russians  is  no 
good,  Hilt,”  said  Garvin,  the  younger  brother. 
“ I ’ll  back  that  little  black  Dane  against  the 
lot,  mongrel  an’  all  as  he  is.” 

“I  don’t  unnerstan’  it,”  growled  Hilton. 
“ There  ain’t  a Coyote,  let  alone  a Gray-wolf, 
kin  run  away  from  them  Greyhounds ; them 
Foxhounds  kin  folly  a trail  three  days  old, 
an’  the  Danes  could  lick  a Grizzly.” 

270 


Snap 

“ I reckon,”  said  the  father,  “ they  kin  run, 
an’  they  kin  track,  an’  they  kin  lick  a Grizzly, 
maybe , but  the  fac’  is  they  don’t  want  to  tackle 
a Gray- wolf.  The  hull  darn  pack  is  scairt — 
an’  I wish  we  had  our  money  out  o’  them.” 

Thus  the  men  grumbled  and  discussed  as  I 
drove  away  and  left  them. 

There  seemed  only  one  solution  of  the  fail- 
ure. The  Hounds  were  swift  and  strong,  but  a 
Gray-wolf  seems  to  terrorize  all  Dogs.  They 
have  not  the  nerve  to  face  him,  and  so,  each 
time  he  gets  away,  and  my  thoughts  flew  back 
to  the  fearless  little  Dog  that  had  shared  my 
bed  for  the  last  year.  How  I wished  he  was 
out  here,  then  these  lubberly  giants  of  Hounds 
would  find  a leader  whose  nerve  would  not  fail 
at  the  moment  of  trial. 

At  Baroka,  my  next  stop,  I got  a batch  of 
mail  including  two  letters  from  the  landlady; 
the  first  to  say  that  “that  beast  of  a Dog  was 
acting  up  scandalous  in  my  room,”  and  the 
other  still  more  forcible,  demanding  his  immedi- 
ate removal. 

“ Why  not  have  him  expressed  to  Mendoza?  ” 
I thought.  “ It ’s  only  twenty  hours  ; they  ’ll 


271 


Snap 

be  glad  to  have  him.  I can  take  him  home 
with  me  when  I go  through.” 

Ill 

My  next  meeting  with  Gingersnap  was  not 
as  different  from  the  first  as  one  might  have  ex- 
pected. He  jumped  on  me,  made  much  vig- 
orous pretense  to  bite,  and  growled  frequently, 
but  it  was  a deep-chested  growl  and  his  stump 
waggled  hard. 

The  Penroofs  had  had  a number  of  Wolf- 
hunts  since  I was  with  them,  and  were  much 
disgusted  at  having  no  better  success  than  be- 
fore. The  Dogs  could  find  a Wolf  nearly  every 
time  they  went  out,  but  they  could  not  kill  him, 
and  the  men  were  not  near  enough  at  the  finish 
to  learn  why. 

Old  Penroof  was  satisfied  that  “ thar  was  n’t 
one  of  the  hull  miserable  gang  that  had  the 
grit  of  a Jack-rabbit.” 

We  were  off  at  dawn  the  next  day — the 
same  procession  of  fine  Horses  and  superb 
riders ; the  big  blue  Dogs,  the  yellow  Dogs,  the 
spotted  Dogs,  as  before ; but  there  was  a new 
272 


Snap 

feature,  a little  white  Dog  that  stayed  close  by 
me,  and  not  only  any  Dogs,  but  Horses  that 
came  too  near  were  apt  to  get  a surprise  from 
his  teeth.  I think  he  quarrelled  with  every 
man,  Horse,  and  Dog  in  the  country,  with  the 
exception  of  a Bull-terrier  belonging  to  the 
Mendoza  hotel  man.  She  was  the  only  one 
smaller  than  himself,  and  they  seemed  very 
good  friends. 

I shall  never  forget  the  view  of  the  hunt  I 
had  that  day.  We  were  on  one  of  those  large, 
flat-headed  buttes  that  give  a kingdom  to  the 
eye,  when  Hilton,  who  had  been  scanning  the 
vast  country  with  glasses,  exclaimed : “ I see 
him.  There  he  goes,  toward  Skull  Creek. 
Guess  it ’s  a Coyote.” 

Now  the  first  thing  is  to  get  the  Greyhounds 
to  see  the  prey — not  an  easy  matter,  as  they  can- 
not use  the  glasses,  and  the  ground  was  covered 
with  sage-brush  higher  than  the  Dogs’  heads. 

But  Hilton  called,  “ Hu,  hu,  Dander,”  and 
leaned  aside  from  his  saddle,  holding  out  his 
foot  at  the  same  time.  With  one  agile  bound 
Dander  leaped  to  the  saddle  and  there  stood 
balancing  on  the  Horse  while  Hilton  kept  point- 


273 


Snap 

ing.  “There  he  is,  Dander;  sic  him  — see 
him  down  there.”  The  Dog  gazed  earnestly 
where  his  master  pointed,  then  seeming  to  see, 
he  sprang  to  the  ground  with  a slight  yelp  and 
sped  away.  The  other  Dogs  followed  after, 
in  an  ever-lengthening  procession,  and  we  rode 
as  hard  as  we  could  behind  them,  but  losing 
time,  for  the  ground  was  cut  with  gullies, 
spotted  with  badger-holes,  and  covered  with 
rocks  and  sage  that  made  full  speed  too  haz- 
ardous. 

We  all  fell  behind,  and  I was  last,  of  course, 
being  least  accustomed  to  the  saddle.  We 
got  several  glimpses  of  the  Dogs  flying  over  the 
level  plain  or  dropping  from  sight  in  gullies  to 
reappear  at  the  other  side.  Dander,  the  Grey- 
hound, was  the  recognized  leader,  and  as  we 
mounted  another  ridge  we  got  sight  of  the 
whole  chase  — a Coyote  at  full  speed,  the 
Dogs  a quarter  of  a mile  behind,  but  gaining. 
When  next  we  saw  them  the  Coyote  was  dead, 
and  the  Dogs  sitting  around  panting,  all  but 
two  of  the  Foxhounds  and  Gingersnap. 

“Too  late  for  the  fracas,”  remarked  Hilton, 
glancing  at  these  last  Foxhounds.  Then  he 


274 


Snap 

proudly  petted  Dander.  “ Did  n’t  need  yer 
purp  after  all,  ye  see.” 

“ Takes  a heap  of  nerve  for  ten  big  Dogs  to 
face  one  little  Coyote,”  remarked  the  father, 
sarcastically.  “ Wait  till  we  run  onto  a Gray.” 
Next  day  we  were  out  again,  for  I made  up 
my  mind  to  see  it  to  a finish. 

From  a high  point  we  caught  sight  of  a 
moving  speck  of  gray.  A moving  white  speck 
stands  for  Antelope,  a red  speck  for  Fox,  a 
gray  speck  for  either  Gray-wolf  or  Coyote,  and 
which  of  these  is  determined  by  its  tail.  If  the 
glass  shows  the  tail  down,  it  is  a Coyote ; if  up, 
it  is  the  hated  Gray-wolf. 

Dander  was  shown  the  game  as  before  and 
led  the  motley  mixed  procession — as  he  had 
before — Greyhounds,  Wolfhounds,  Foxhounds, 
Danes,  Bull-terrier,  horsemen.  We  got  a mo- 
mentary view  of  the  pursuit ; a Gray-wolf  it 
surely  was,  loping  away  ahead  of  the  Dogs. 
Somehow  I thought  the  first  Dogs  were  not 
running  so  fast  now  as  they  had  after  the  Coy- 
ote. But  no  one  knew  the  finish  of  the  hunt. 
The  Dogs  came  back  to  us  one  by  one,  and  we 
saw  no  more  of  that  Wolf. 


275 


Snap 

Sarcastic  remarks  and  recrimination  were  now 
freely  indulged  in  by  the  hunters. 

“Pah!  scairt,  plumb  scairt,”  was  the  fa- 
ther’s disgusted  comment  on  the  pack.  “ They 
could  catch  up  easy  enough,  but  when  he  turned 
on  them,  they  lighted  out  for  home— pah!  ” 

“ Where ’s  that  thar  onsurpassable,  fearless, 
scaired-o’-nort  Tarrier?”  asked  Hilton,  scorn- 
fully. 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  I.  “ I am  inclined  to 
think  he  never  saw  the  Wolf ; but  if  he  ever 
does,  I ’ll  bet  he  sails  in  for  death  or  glory.” 

That  night  several  Cows  were  killed  close  to  the 
ranch,  and  we  were  spurred  on  to  another  hunt. 

It  opened  much  like  the  last.  Late  in  the 
afternoon  we  sighted  a gray  fellow  with  tail 
up,  not  half  a mile  off.  Hilton  called  Dander 
up  on  the  saddle.  I acted  on  the  idea  and 
called  Snap  to  mine.  His  legs  were  so  short 
that  he  had  to  leap  several  times  before  he 
made  it,  scrambling  up  at  last  with  my  foot  as 
a half-way  station.  I pointed  and  “ sic-ed  ” 
for  a minute  before  he  saw  the  game,  and  then 
he  started  out  after  the  Greyhounds,  already 
gone,  with  energy  that  was  full  of  promise. 

276 


Snap 


The  chase  this  time  led  us,  not  to  the  rough 
brakes  along  the  river,  but  toward  the  high 
open  country,  for  reasons  that  appeared  later. 
We  were  close  together  as  we  rose  to  the 
upland  and  sighted  the  chase  half  a mile  off, 
just  as  Dander  came  up  with  the  Wolf  and 
snapped  at  his  haunch.  The  Gray-wolf  turned 
round  to  fight,  and  we  had  a fine  view.  The 
Dogs  came  up  by  twos  and  threes,  barking  at 
him  in  a ring,  till  last  the  little  white  one 
rushed  up.  He  wasted  no  time  barking,  but 
rushed  straight  at  the  Wolfs  throat  and  missed 
it,  yet  seemed  to  get  him  by  the  nose ; 
then  the  ten  big  Dogs  closed  in,  and  in  two 
minutes  the  Wolf  was  dead.  We  had  ridden 
hard  to  be  in  at  the  finish,  and  though  our  view 
was  distant,  we  saw  at  least  that  Snap  had  lived 
up  to  the  telegram,  as  well  as  to  my  promises 
for  him. 

Now  it  was  my  turn  to  crow,  and  I did  not 
lose  the  chance.  Snap  had  shown  them  how, 
and  at  last  the  Mendoza  pack  had  killed  a 
Gray-wolf  without  help  from  the  men. 

There  were  two  things  to  mar  the  victory 
somewhat:  first,  it  was  a young  Wolf,  a mere 


■a 


277 


Snap 

Cub,  hence  his  foolish  choice  of  country ; sec- 
ond, Snap  was  wounded — the  Wolf  had  given 
him  a bad  cut  in  the  shoulder. 

As  we  rode  in  proud  procession  home,  I saw 
he  limped  a little.  “ Here,”  I cried,  “ come 
up,  Snap.”  He  tried  once  or  twice  to  jump  to 
the  saddle,  but  could  not.  “Here,  Hilton,  lift 
him  up  to  me.” 

“ Thanks ; I ’ll  let  you  handle  your  own 
rattlesnakes,”  was  the  reply,  for  all  knew  now 
that  it  was  not  safe  to  meddle  with  his  person. 
“ Here,  Snap,  take  hold,”  I said,  and  held  my 
quirt  to  him.  He  seized  it,  and  by  that  I lifted 
him  to  the  front  of  my  saddle  and  so  carried 
him  home.  I cared  for  him  as  though  he  had 
been  a baby.  He  had  shown  those  Cattle-men 
how  to  fill  the  weak  place  in  their  pack ; the 
Foxhounds  may  be  good  and  the  Greyhounds 
swift  and  the  Russians  and  Danes  fighters,  but 
they  are  no  use  at  all  without  the  crowning 
moral  force  of  grit,  that  none  can  supply  so 
well  as  a Bull-terrier.  On  that  day  the  Cattle- 
men learned  how  to  manage  the  Wolf  question, 
as  you  will  find  if  ever  you  are  at  Mendoza; 
for  every  successful  Wolf  pack  there  has  with 
278 


Snap 

it  a Bull-terrier,  preferably  of  the  Snap-Mendoza 
breed. 


IV 

Next  day  was  Hallowe’en,  the  anniversary 
of  Snap’s  advent.  The  weather  was  clear, 
bright,  not  too  cold,  and  there  was  no  snow  on 
the  ground.  The  men  usually  celebrated  the 
day  with  a hunt  of  some  sort,  and  now,  of 
course,  Wolves  were  the  one  object.  To  the 
disappointment  of  all,  Snap  was  in  bad  shape 
with  his  wound.  He  slept,  as  usual,  at  my  feet, 
and  bloody  stains  now  marked  the  place.  He 
was  not  in  condition  to  fight,  but  we  were 
bound  to  have  a Wolf-hunt,  so  he  was  beguiled 
to  an  outhouse  and  locked  up,  while  we  went 
off,  I,  at  least,  with  a sense  of  impending  dis- 
aster. I knew  we  should  fail  without  my  Dog, 
but  I did  not  realize  how  bad  a failure  it  was 
to  be. 

Afar  among  the  buttes  of  Skull  Creek  we  had 
roamed  when  a white  ball  appeared  bounding 
through  the  sage-brush,  and  in  a minute  more 
Snap  came,  growling  and  stump-waggling,  up 
to  my  Horse’s  side.  I could  not  send  him  back  ; 


279 


Snap 

he  would  take  no  such  orders,  not  even  from 
me.  His  wound  was  looking  bad,  so  I called 
him,  held  down  the  quirt,  and  jumped  him  to 
my  saddle. 

“ There,”  I thought,  “ I ’ll  keep  you  safe  till 
we  get  home.”  Yes,  I thought;  but  I reck- 
oned not  with  Snap.  The  voice  of  Hilton, 
“ Hu,  hu,”  announced  that  he  had  sighted  a 
Wolf.  Dander  and  Riley,  his  rival,  both  sprang 
to  the  point  of  observation,  with  the  result  that 
they  collided  and  fell  together,  sprawling,  in 
the  sage.  But  Snap,  gazing  hard,  had  sighted 
the  Wolf,  not  so  very  far  off,  and  before  I knew 
it,  he  leaped  from  the  saddle  and  bounded 
zigzag,  high,  low,  in  and  under  the  sage,  straight 
for  the  enemy,  leading  the  whole  pack  for  a 
few  minutes.  Not  far,  of  course.  The  great 
Greyhounds  sighted  the  moving  speck,  and  the 
usual  procession  strung  out  on  the  plain.  It 
promised  to  be  a fine  hunt,  for  the  Wolf  had 
less  than  half  a mile  start  and  all  the  Dogs 
were  fully  interested. 

“ They ’ve  turned  up  Grizzly  Gully,”  cried 
Garvin.  “ This  way,  and  we  can  head  them 
off.” 


280 


Snap 

So  we  turned  and  rode  hard  around  the 
north  side  of  Hulmer’s  Butte,  while  the  chase 
seemed  to  go  round  the  south. 

We  galloped  to  the  top  of  Cedar  Ridge  and 
were  about  to  ride  down,  when  Hilton  shouted, 
“By  George, here  he  is!  We  ’re  right  onto 
him.”  He  leaped  from  his  Horse,  dropped  the 
bridle,  and  ran  forward.  I did  the  same.  A 
great  Gray-wolf  came  lumbering  across  an 
open  plain  toward  us.  His  head  was  low,  his 
tail  out  level,  and  fifty  yards  behind  him  was 
Dander,  sailing  like  a Hawk  over  the  ground, 
going  twice  as  fast  as  the  Wolf.  In  a minute 
the  Hound  was  alongside  and  snapped,  but 
bounded  back,  as  the  Wolf  turned  on  him.  They 
were  just  below  us  now  and  not  fifty  feet  away. 
Garvin  drew  his  revolver,  but  in  a fateful  mo- 
ment Hilton  interfered:  “ No;  no;  let ’s  see  it 
out.”  In  a few  seconds  the  next  Greyhound 
arrived,  then  the  rest  in  order  of  swiftness. 
Each  came  up  full  of  fight  and  fury,  determined 
to  go  right  in  and  tear  the  Gray-wolf  to  pieces ; 
but  each  in  turn  swerved  aside,  and  leaped  and 
barked  around  at  a safe  distance.  After  a 
minute  or  so  the  Russians  appeared— fine  big 
281 


r*SM 


Snap 

Dogs  they  were.  Their  distant  intention  no 
doubt  was  to  dash  right  at  the  old  Wolf ; but  his 
fearless  front,  his  sinewy  frame  and  death-deal- 
ing jaws,  awed  them  long  before  they  were 
near  him,  and  they  also  joined  the  ring,  while 
the  desperado  in  the  middle  faced  this  way  and 
that,  ready  for  any  or  all. 

Now  the  Danes  came  up,  huge-limbed  crea- 
tures, any  one  of  them  as  heavy  as  the  Wolf.  I 
heard  their  heavy  breathing  tighten  into  a 
threatening  sound  as  they  plunged  ahead,  eager 
to  tear  the  foe  to  pieces ; but  when  they  saw 
him  there,  grim,  fearless,  mighty  of  jaw,  tireless 
of  limb,  ready  to  die  if  need  be,  but  sure  of  this, 
he  would  not  die  alone — well,  those  great 
Danes — all  three  of  them — were  stricken,  as 
the  rest  had  been,  with  a sudden  bashfulness : 
yes,  they  would  go  right  in  presently — not  now, 
but  as  soon  as  they  had  got  their  breath ; they 
were  not  afraid  of  a Wolf,  oh,  no.  I could 
read  their  courage  in  their  voices.  They  knew 
perfectly  well  that  the  first  Dog  to  go  in  was 
going  to  get  hurt,  but  never  mind  that — pres- 
ently ; they  would  bark  a little  more  to  get  up 
enthusiasm. 


282 


The  bounding  ball  of  white. 


Snap 


And  as  the  ten  big  Dogs  were  leaping  round 
the  silent  Wolf  at  bay,  there  was  a rustling  in  the 
sage  at  the  far  side  of  the  place ; then  a snow- 
white  rubber  ball,  it  seemed,  came  bounding, 
but  grew  into  a little  Bull-terrier,  and  Snap, 
slowest  of  the  pack,  and  last,  came  panting 
hard,  so  hard  he  seemed  gasping.  Over  the  level 
open  he  made,  straight  to  the  changing  ring 
around  the  Cattle-killer  whom  none  dared  face. 
Did  he  hesitate?  Not  for  an  instant;  through 
the  ring  of  the  yelping  pack,  straight  for  the  old 
despot  of  the  range,  right  for  his  throat,  he 
sprang;  and  the  Gray-wolf  struck  with  his 
twenty  scimitars.  But  the  little  one,  if  foiled 
at  all,  sprang  again,  and  then  what  came  I 
hardly  knew.  There  was  a whirling  mass  of 
Dogs.  I thought  I saw  the  little  White  One 
clinched  on  the  Gray-wolf’s  nose.  The  pack 
was  all  around ; we  could  not  help  them  now. 
But  they  did  not  need  us ; they  had  a leader 
of  dauntless  mettle,  and  when  in  a little  while 
the  final  scene  was  done,  there  on  the  ground 
lay  the  Gray-wolf,  a giant  of  his  kind,  and 
clinched  on  his  nose  was  the  little  white  Dog. 

We  were  standing  around  within  fifteen  feet, 
285 


Snap 


ready  to  help,  but  had  no  chance  till  we  were 
not  needed. 

The  Wolf  was  dead,  and  I hallooed  to  Snap, 
but  he  did  not  move.  I bent  over  him.  “ Snap 
— Snap,  it ’s  all  over ; you  ’ve  killed  him.”  But 
the  Dog  was  very  still,  and  now  I saw  two 
deep  wounds  in  his  body.  I tried  to  lift  him. 
“ Let  go,  old  fellow  ; it ’s  all  over.”  He  growled 
feebly,  and  at  last  let  go  of  the  Wolf.  The 
rough  cattle-men  were  kneeling  around  him 
now ; old  Penroof  s voice  was  trembling  as  he 
muttered,  “ I would  n’t  had  him  hurt  for  twenty 
steers.”  I lifted  him  in  my  arms,  called  to  him 
and  stroked  his  head.  He  snarled  a little,  a 
farewell  as  it  proved,  for  he  licked  my  hand  as 
he  did  so,  then  never  snarled  again. 

That  was  a sad  ride  home  for  me.  There 
was  the  skin  of  a monstrous  Wolf,  but  no  other 
hint  of  triumph.  We  buried  the  fearless  one 
on  a butte  back  of  the  ranch-house.  Pen- 
roof,  as  he  stood  by,  was  heard  to  grumble : 
“By  jingo,  that  was  grit — cl’ar  grit!  Ye  can’t 
raise  Cattle  without  grit.” 


286 


■ 


I15 

t-T  „ 

™ ii 
ii* 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


;J*'W 

th 


I 

T was  during  the  great  bliz- 
zard of  1882  that  I first  met 
the  Winnipeg  Wolf.  I had 
left  St.  Paul  in  the  middle 
of  March  to  cross  the  prai- 
ries to  Winnipeg,  expecting 
to  be  there  in  twenty-four 
hours,  but  the  Storm  King  had  planned  it 
otherwise  and  sent  a heavy-laden  eastern  blast. 
The  snow  came  down  in  a furious,  steady  tor- 
rent, hour  after  hour.  Never  before  had  I seen 
such  a storm.  All  the  world  was  lost  in  snow 
— snow,  snow,  snow — whirling,  biting,  sting- 
ing, drifting  snow — and  the  puffing,  monstrous 
engine  was  compelled  to  stop  at  the  command 
of  those  tiny,  feathery  crystals  of  spotless  purity. 

289 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


Many  strong  hands  with  shovels  came  to  the 
delicately  curled  snowdrifts  that  barred  our 
way,  and  in  an  hour  the  engine  could  pass — 
only  to  stick  in  another  drift  yet  farther  on. 
It  was  dreary  work — day  after  day,  night  after 
night,  sticking  in  the  drifts,  digging  ourselves 
out,  and  still  the  snow  went  whirling  and  play- 
ing about  us. 

“Twenty-two  hours  to  Emerson,”  said  the 
official ; but  nearly  two  weeks  of  digging  passed 
before  we  did  reach  Emerson,  and  the  poplar 
country  where  the  thickets  stop  all  drifting  of 
the  snow.  Thenceforth  the  train  went  swiftly, 
the  poplar  woods  grew  more  thickly — we  passed 
for  miles  through  solid  forests,  then  perhaps 
through  an  open  space.  As  we  neared  St. 
Boniface,  the  eastern  outskirts  of  Winnipeg, 
we  dashed  across  a little  glade  fifty  yards  wide, 
and  there  in  the  middle  was  a group  that  stirred 
me  to  the  very  soul. 

In  plain  view  was  a great  rabble  of  Dogs, 
large  and  small,  black,  white,  and  yellow,  wrig- 
gling and  heaving  this  way  and  that  way  in  a 
rude  ring ; to  one  side  was  a little  yellow  Dog 
stretched  and  quiet  in  the  snow ; on  the  outer 


290 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

part  of  the  ring  was  a huge  black  Dog  bound- 
ing about  and  barking,  but  keeping  ever  be- 
hind the  moving  mob.  And  in  the  midst,  the 
centre  and  cause  of  it  all,  was  a great,  grim, 
Wolf. 

Wolf?  He  looked  like  a Lion.  There  he 
stood,  all  alone — resolute — calm — with  bristling 
mane,  and  legs  braced  firmly,  glancing  this  way 
and  that,  to  be  ready  for  an  attack  in  any  direc- 
tion. There  was  a curl  on  his  lips — it  looked  like 
scorn,  but  I suppose  it  was  really  the  fighting 
snarl  of  tooth  display.  Led  by  a wolfish-look- 
ing Dog  that  should  have  been  ashamed,  the 
pack  dashed  in,  for  the  twentieth  time  no 
doubt.  But  the  great  gray  form  leaped  here 
and  there,  and  chop,  chop,  chop  went  those 
fearful  jaws,  no  other  sound  from  the  lonely 
warrior ; but  a death  yelp  from  more  than  one 
of  his  foes,  as  those  that  were  able  again  sprang 
back,  and  left  him  statuesque  as  before,  untamed, 
unmaimed,  and  contemptuous  of  them  all. 

How  I wished  for  the  train  to  stick  in  a 
snowdrift  now,  as  so  often  before,  for  all  my 
heart  went  out  to  that  Gray-wolf ; I longed 
to  go  and  help  him.  But  the  snow-deep  glade 


291 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

flashed  by,  the  poplar  trunks  shut  out  the  view, 
and  we  went  on  to  our  journey’s  end. 

This  was  all  I saw,  and  it  seemed  little ; but 
before  many  days  had  passed  I knew  surely 
that  I had  been  favored  with  a view,  in  broad 
daylight,  of  a rare  and  wonderful  creature,  none 
less  than  the  Winnipeg  Wolf. 

His  was  a strange  history — a Wolf  that  pre- 
ferred the  city  to  the  country,  that  passed  by 
the  Sheep  to  kill  the  Dogs,  and  that  always 
hunted  alone. 

In  telling  the  story  of  le  Garou , as  he  was 
called  by  some,  although  I speak  of  these  things 
as  locally  familiar,  it  is  very  sure  that  to  many 
citizens  of  the  town  they  were  quite  unknown. 
The  smug  shopkeeper  on  the  main  street  had 
scarcely  heard  of  him  until  the  day  after  the 
final  scene  at  the  slaughter-house,  when  his 
great  carcass  was  carried  to  Hine’s  taxidermist 
shop  and  there  mounted,  to  be  exhibited  later 
at  the  Chicago  World’s  Fair,  and  to  be  de- 
stroyed, alas!  in  the  fire  that  reduced  the 
Mulvey  Grammar  School  to  ashes  in  1896. 


292 


Surrounded  by  a score  of  Uogs  was  a Great  Gray-wolf. 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


II 


It  seems  that  Fiddler  Paul,  the  handsome 
ne’er-do-well  of  the  half-breed  world,  readier 
to  hunt  than  to  work,  was  prowling  with  his 
gun  along  the  wooded  banks  of  the  Red  River 
by  Kildonan,  one  day  in  the  June  of  1880.  He 
saw  a Gray-wolf  come  out  of  a hole  in  a bank 
and  fired  a chance  shot  that  killed  it.  Having 
made  sure,  by  sending  in  his  Dog,  that  no 
other  large  Wolf  was  there,  he  crawled  into 
the  den,  and  found,  to  his  utter  amazement 
and  delight,  eight  young  Wolves — nine  bounties 
of  ten  dollars  each.  How  much  is  that?  A 
fortune  surely.  He  used  a stick  vigorously, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  the  yellow  Cur,  all 
the  little  ones  were  killed  but  one.  There  is  a 
superstition  about  the  last  of  a brood — it  is  not 
lucky  to  kill  it.  So  Paul  set  out  for  town  with 
the  scalp  of  the  old  Wolf,  the  scalps  of  the 
seven  young,  and  the  last  Cub  alive. 

The  saloon-keeper,  who  got  the  dollars  for 
which  the  scalps  were  exchanged,  soon  got  the 
living  Cub.  He  grew  up  at  the  end  of  a chain, 
but  developed  a chest  and  jaws  that  no  Hound 


295 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

in  town  could  match.  He  was  kept  in  the 
yard  for  the  amusement  of  customers,  and  this 
amusement  usually  took  the  form  of  baiting 
the  captive  with  Dogs.  The  young  Wolf  was 
bitten  and  mauled  nearly  to  death  on  several 
occasions,  but  he  recovered,  and  each  month 
there  were  fewer  Dogs  willing  to  face  him. 
His  life  was  as  hard  as  it  could  be.  There 
was  but  one  gleam  of  gentleness  in  it  all,  and 
that  was  the  friendship  that  grew  up  between 
himself  and  Little  Jim,  the  son  of  the  saloon- 
keeper. 

Jim  was  a wilful  little  rascal  with  a mind  of 
his  own.  He  took  to  the  Wolf  because  it  had 
killed  a Dog  that  had  bitten  him.  He  thence- 
forth fed  the  Wolf  and  made  a pet  of  it,  and 
the  Wolf  responded  by  allowing  him  to  take 
liberties  which  no  one  else  dared  venture. 

Jim’s  father  was  not  a model  parent.  He 
usually  spoiled  his  son,  but  at  times  would  get 
in  a rage  and  beat  him  cruelly  for  some  trifle. 
The  child  was  quick  to  learn  that  he  was  beaten, 
not  because  he  had  done  wrong,  but  because  he 
had  made  his  father  angry.  If,  therefore,  he 
could  keep  out  of  the  way  until  that  anger  had 
296 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


cooled,  he  had  no  further  cause  for  worry. 
One  day,  seeking  safety  in  flight  with  his  fa- 
ther behind  him,  he  dashed  into  the  Wolf’s 
kennel,  and  his  grizzly  chum  thus  unceremoni- 
ously awakened  turned  to  the  door,  displayed  a 
double  row  of  ivories,  and  plainly  said  to  the 
father:  “ Don’t  you  dare  to  touch  him.” 

If  Hogan  could  have  shot  the  Wolf  then 
and  there  he  would  have  done  so,  but  the 
chances  were  about  equal  of  killing  his  son,  so 
he  let  them  alone  and,  half  an  hour  later, 
laughed  at  the  whole  affair.  Thenceforth  Lit- 
tle Jim  made  for  the  Wolf’s  den  whenever  he 
was  in  danger,  and  sometimes  the  only  notice  * 
any  one  had  that  the  boy  had  been  in  mischief  • 
was  seeing  him  sneak  in  behind  the  savage 
captive.  I 

Economy  in  hired  help  was  a first  principle  1 
with  Hogan.  Therefore  his  “ barkeep  ” was  a 
Chinaman.  He  was  a timid,  harmless  creature,  j 
so  Paul  des  Roches  did  not  hesitate  to  bully 
him.  One  day,  finding  Hogan  out,  and  the 
Chinaman  alone  in  charge,  Paul,  already  tipsy, 
demanded  a drink  on  credit,  and  Tung  Ling, 
acting  on  standing  orders,  refused.  His  artless 


297 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


explanation,  “No  good,  neber  pay,”  so  far 
from  clearing  up  the  difficulty,  brought  Paul 
staggering  back  of  the  bar  to  avenge  the  insult. 
The  Celestial  might  have  suffered  grievous 
bodily  hurt,  but  that  Little  Jim  was  at  hand  and 
had  a long  stick,  with  which  he  adroitly  tripped 
up  the  Fiddler  and  sent  him  sprawling.  He 
staggered  to  his  feet  swearing  he  would  have 
Jim’s  life.  But  the  child  was  near  the  back 
door  and  soon  found  refuge  in  the  Wolf’s  kennel. 

Seeing  that  the  boy  had  a protector,  Paul 
got  the  long  stick,  and  from  a safe  distance  be- 
gan to  belabor  the  Wolf.  The  grizzly  creature 
raged  at  the  end  of  the  chain,  but,  though  he 
parried  many  cruel  blows  by  seizing  the  stick 
in  his  teeth,  he  was  suffering  severely,  when 
Paul  realized  that  Jim,  whose  tongue  had  not 
been  idle,  was  fumbling  away  with  nervous 
fingers  to  set  the  Wolf  loose,  and  soon  would 
succeed.  Indeed,  it  would  have  been  done 
already  but  for  the  strain  that  the  Wolf  kept 
on  the  chain. 

The  thought  of  being  in  the  yard  at  the 
mercy  of  the  huge  animal  that  he  had  so  en- 
raged, gave  the  brave  Paul  a thrill  of  terror. 


298 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

Jim’s  wheedling  voice  was  heard — “ Hold  on 
now,  Wolfie;  back  up  just  a little,  and  you 
shall  have  him.  Now  do;  there  ’s  a good 
Wolfie” — that  was  enough;  the  Fiddler  fled 
and  carefully  closed  all  doors  behind  him. 

Thus  the  friendship  between  Jim  and  his  pet 
grew  stronger,  and  the  Wolf,  as  he  developed 
his  splendid  natural  powers,  gave  daily  evidence 
also  of  the  mortal  hatred  he  bore  to  men  that 
smelt  of  whiskey  and  to  all  Dogs,  the  causes  of 
his  sufferings.  This  peculiarity,  coupled  with 
his  love  for  the  child — and  all  children  seemed 
to  be  included  to  some  extent — grew  with  his 
growth  and  seemed  to  prove  the  ruling  force 
of  his  life. 

Ill 

At  this  time — that  is,  the  fall  of  1881 — there 
were  great  complaints  among  the  Qu’Appelle 
ranchmen  that  the  Wolves  were  increasing  in 
their  country  and  committing  great  depreda- 
tions among  the  stock.  Poisoning  and  trap- 
ping had  proved  failures,  and  when  a distin- 
guished German  visitor  appeared  at  the  Club 
in  Winnipeg  and  announced  that  he  was  bring- 

299 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

ing  some  Dogs  that  could  easily  rid  the  coun- 
try of  Wolves,  he  was  listened  to  with  unusual 
interest.  For  the  cattle-men  are  fond  of  sport, 
and  the  idea  of  helping  their  business  by  es- 
tablishing a kennel  of  Wolfhounds  was  very 
alluring. 

The  German  soon  produced  as  samples  of 
his  Dogs,  two  magnificent  Danes,  one  white, 
the  other  blue  with  black  spots  and  a singular 
white  eye  that  completed  an  expression  of  un- 
usual ferocity.  Each  of  these  great  creatures 
weighed  nearly  two  hundred  pounds.  They 
were  muscled  like  Tigers,  and  the  German  was 
readily  believed  when  he  claimed  that  these 
two  alone  were  more  than  a match  for  the  big- 
gest Wolf.  He  thus  described  their  method  of 
hunting:  “All  you  have  to  do  is  show  them 
the  trail  and,  even  if  it  is  a day  old,  away  they 
go  on  it.  They  cannot  be  shaken  off.  They 
will  soon  find  that  Wolf,  no  matter  how  he 
doubles  and  hides.  Then  they  close  on  him. 
He  turns  to  run,  the  blue  Dog  takes  him  by 
the  haunch  and  throws  him  like  this,”  and  the 
German  jerked  a roll  of  bread  into  the  air; 
“ then  before  he  touches  the  ground  the  white 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

Dog  has  his  head,  the  other  his  tail,  and  they 
pull  him  apart  like  that.” 

It  sounded  all  right ; at  any  rate  every  one 
was  eager  to  put  it  to  the  proof.  Several  of 
the  residents  said  there  was  a fair  chance  of 
finding  a Gray-wolf  along  the  Assiniboine,  so 
a hunt  was  organized.  But  they  searched  in 
vain  for  three  days  and  were  giving  it  up  when 
some  one  suggested  that  down  at  Hogan’s 
saloon  was  a Wolf  chained  up,  that  they  could 
get  for  the  value  of  the  bounty,  and  though 
little  more  than  a year  old  he  would  serve  to 
show  what  the  Dogs  could  do. 

The  value  of  Hogan’s  Wolf  went  up  at  once 
when  he  knew  the  importance  of  the  occasion ; 
besides,  “he  had  conscientious  scruples.”  All 
his  scruples  vanished,  however,  when  his  views 
as  to  price  were  met.  His  first  care  was  to  get 
Little  Jim  out  of  the  way  by  sending  him  on 
an  errand  to  his  grandma’s;  then  the  Wolf 
was  driven  into  his  box  and  nailed  in.  The 
box  was  put  in  a wagon  and  taken  to  the  open 
prairie  along  the  Portage  trail. 

The  Dogs  could  scarcely  be  held  back,  they 
were  so  eager  for  the  fray,  as  soon  as  they 


3or 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

smelt  the  Wolf.  But  several  strong  men  held 
their  leash,  the  wagon  was  drawn  half  a mile 
farther,  and  the  Wolf  was  turned  out  with 
some  difficulty.  At  first  he  looked  scared  and 
sullen.  He  tried  to  get  out  of  sight,  but  made 
no  attempt  to  bite.  However,  on  finding  him- 
self free,  as  well  as  hissed  and  hooted  at,  he 
started  off  at  a slinking  trot  toward  the  south, 
where  the  land  seemed  broken.  The  Dogs 
were  released  at  that  moment,  and,  baying 
furiously,  they  bounded  away  after  the  young 
Wolf.  The  men  cheered  loudly  and  rode  be- 
hind them.  From  the  very  first  it  was  clear 
that  he  had  no  chance.  The  Dogs  were  much 
swifter ; the  white  one  could  run  like  a Grey- 
hound. The  German  was  wildly  enthusiastic 
as  she  flew  across  the  prairie,  gaining  visibly 
on  the  Wolf  at  every  second.  Many  bets 
were  offered  on  the  Dogs,  but  there  were  no 
takers.  The  only  bets  accepted  were  Dog 
against  Dog.  The  young  Wolf  went  at  speed 
now,  but  within  a mile  the  white  Dog  was  right 
behind  him — was  closing  in. 

The  German  shouted : “ Now  watch  and  see 
that  Wolf  go  up  in  the  air.” 

3°2 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


In  a moment  the  runners  were  together. 
Both  recoiled,  neither  went  up  in  the  air,  but 
the  white  Dog  rolled  over  with  a fearful  gash 
in  her  shoulder — out  of  the  fight,  if  not  killed. 
Ten  seconds  later  the  Blue-spot  arrived,  open- 
mouthed.  This  meeting  was  as  quick  and  al- 
most as  mysterious  as  the  first.  The  animals 
barelv  touched  each  other.  The  gray  one 
bounded  aside,  his  head  out  of  sight  for  a mo- 
ment in  the  flash  of  quick  movement.  Spot 
reeled  and  showed  a bleeding  flank.  Urged 
on  by  the  men,  he  assaulted  again,  but  only  to 
get  another  wound  that  taught  him  to  keep  off. 

Now  came  the  keeper  with  four  more  huge 
Dogs.  They  turned  these  loose,  and  the  men 
armed  with  clubs  and  lassos  were  closing  to 
help  in  finishing  the  Wolf,  when  a small  boy 
came  charging  over  the  plain  on  a Pony.  He 
leaped  to  the  ground  and  wriggling  through 
the  ring  flung  his  arms  around  the  Wolf’s  neck. 
He  called  him  his  “Wolfie  pet,”  his  “dear 
Wolfie  ” — the  Wolf  licked  his  face  and  wagged 
its  tail — then  the  child  turned  on  the  crowd  and 
through  his  streaming  tears,  he — Well  ! it  would 
not  do  to  print  what  he  said.  He  was  only  nine, 


303 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

but  he  was  very  old-fashioned,  as  well  as  a rude 
little  boy.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  a low 
saloon,  and  had  been  an  apt  pupil  at  picking 
up  the  vile  talk  of  the  place.  He  cursed  them 
one  and  all  and  for  generations  back ; he  did 
not  spare  even  his  own  father. 

If  a man  had  used  such  shocking  and  insult- 
ing language  he  might  have  been  lynched,  but 
coming  from  a baby,  the  hunters  did  not  know 
what  to  do,  so  finally  did  the  best  thing.  They 
laughed  aloud — not  at  themselves,  that  is  not 
considered  good  form — but  they  all  laughed  at 
the  German  whose  wonderful  Dogs  had  been 
worsted  by  a half-grown  Wolf. 

Jimmie  now  thrust  his  dirty,  tear-stained 
little  fist  down  into  his  very-much-of-a-boy’s 
pocket,  and  from  among  marbles  and  chewing- 
gum,  as  well  as  tobacco,  matches,  pistol  car- 
tridges, and  other  contraband,  he  fished  out  a 
flimsy  bit  of  grocer’s  twine  and  fastened  it 
around  the  Wolf’s  neck.  Then,  still  blubber- 
ing a little,  he  set  out  for  home  on  the  Pony, 
leading  the  Wolf  and  hurling  a final  threat  and 
anathema  at  the  German  nobleman : “Fur  two 
cents  I ’d  sic  him  on  you,  gol  darn  ye.” 


304 


“ His  dear  Wolfie, 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


IV 

Early  that  winter  Jimmie  was  taken  down 
with  a fever.  The  Wolf  howled  miserably  in 
the  yard  when  he  missed  his  little  friend,  and 
finally  on  the  boy’s  demand  was  admitted  to 
the  sick-room,  and  there  this  great  wild  Dog — 
for  that  is  all  a Wolf  is — continued  faithfully 
watching  by  his  friend’s  bedside. 

The  fever  had  seemed  slight  at  first,  so  that 
every  one  was  shocked  when  there  came  sud- 
denly a turn  for  the  worse,  and  three  days  be- 
fore Christmas  Jimmie  died.  He  had  no  more 
sincere  mourner  than  his  “ Wolfie.”  The  great 
gray  creature  howled  in  miserable  answer  to 
the  church-bell  tolling  when  he  followed  the 
body  on  Christmas  Eve  to  the  graveyard  at 
St.  Boniface.  He  soon  came  back  to  the 
premises  behind  the  saloon,  but  when  an  at- 
tempt was  made  to  chain  him  again,  he  leaped 
a board  fence  and  was  finally  lost  sight  of. 

Later  that  same  winter  old  Renaud,  the 
trapper,  with  his  pretty  half-breed  daughter, 
Ninette,  came  to  live  in  a little  log-cabin  on 

307 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


the  river  bank.  He  knew  nothing  about  Jim- 
mie Hogan,  and  he  was  not  a little  puzzled  to 
find  Wolf  tracks  and  signs  along  the  river  on 
both  sides  between  St.  Boniface  and  Fort 
Garry.  He  listened  with  interest  and  doubt 
to  tales  that  the  Hudson  Bay  Company’s  men 
told  of  a great  Gray-wolf  that  had  come  to 
live  in  the  region  about,  and  even  to  enter  the 
town  at  night,  and  that  was  in  particular  at- 
tached to  the  woods  about  St.  Boniface  Church. 

On  Christmas  Eve  of  that  year  when  the  bell 
tolled  again  as  it  had  done  for  Jimmie,  a lone 
and  melancholy  howling  from  the  woods  al- 
most convinced  Renaud  that  the  stories  were 
true.  He  knew  the  wolf-cries— the  howl  for 
help,  the  love  song,  the  lonely  wail,  and  the 
sharp  defiance  of  the  Wolves.  This  was  the 
lonely  wail. 

The  trapper  went  to  the  riverside  and  gave 
an  answering  howl.  A shadowy  form  left  the 
far  woods  and  crossed  on  the  ice  to  where  the 
man  sat,  log-still,  on  a log.  It  came  up  near 
him,  circled  past  and  sniffed,  then  its  eye 
glowed  ; it  growled  like  a Dog  that  is  a little 
angry,  and  glided  back  into  the  night. 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

Thus  Renaud  knew,  and  before  long  many 
townfolk  began  to  learn,  that  a huge  Gray- 
wolf  was  living  in  their  streets,  “a  Wolf  three 
times  as  big  as  the  one  that  used  to  be  chained 
at  Hogan’s  gin-mill.”  He  was  the  terror  of 
Dogs,  killing  them  on  all  possible  occasions, 
and  some  said,  though  it  was  never  proven,  that 
he  had  devoured  more  than  one  half-breed  who 
was  out  on  a spree. 

And  this  was  the  Winnipeg  Wolf  that  I had 
seen  that  day  in  the  wintry  woods.  I had 
longed  to  go  to  his  help,  thinking  the  odds  so 
hopelessly  against  him,  but  later  knowledge 
changed  the  thought.  I do  not  know  how 
that  fight  ended,  but  I do  know  that  he  was 
seen  many  times  afterward  and  some  of  the 
Dogs  were  not. 

Thus  his  was  the  strangest  life  that  ever  his 
kind  had  known.  Free  of  all  the  woods  and 
plains,  he  elected  rather  to  lead  a life  of  daily 
hazard  in  the  town — each  week  at  least  some 
close  escape,  and  every  day  a day  of  daring 
deeds ; finding  momentary  shelter  at  times  un- 
der the  very  boardwalk  crossings.  Hating  the 
men  and  despising  the  Dogs,  he  fought  his 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

daily  way  and  held  the  hordes  of  Curs  at  bay 
or  slew  them  when  he  found  them  few  or  sin- 
gle ; harried  the  drunkard,  evaded  men  with 
guns,  learned  traps  — learned  poison,  too — just 
how,  we  cannot  tell,  but  learn  it  he  did,  for  he 
passed  it  again  and  again,  or  served  it  only 
with  a Wolfs  contempt. 

Not  a street  in  Winnipeg  that  he  did  not 
know ; not  a policeman  in  Winnipeg  that  had 
not  seen  his  swift  and  shadowy  form  in  the 
gray  dawn  as  he  passed  where  he  would ; not 
a Dog  in  Winnipeg  that  did  not  cower  and 
bristle  when  the  telltale  wind  brought  proof 
that  old  Garou  was  crouching  near.  His  only 
path  was  the  warpath,  and  all  the  world  his 
foes.  But  throughout  this  lurid,  semi-mythic 
record  there  was  one  recurring  pleasant  thought 
— Garou  never  was  known  to  harm  a child. 

V 

Ninette  was  a desert-born  beauty  like  her 
Indian  mother,  but  gray-eyed  like  her  Nor- 
mandy father,  a sweet  girl  of  sixteen,  the  belle 
of  her  set.  She  might  have  married  any  one 


3IQ 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


of  the  richest  and  steadiest  young  men  of  the 
country,  but  of  course,  in  feminine  perversity 
her  heart  was  set  on  that  ne’er-do-well,  Paul 
des  Roches.  A handsome  fellow,  a good 
dancer  and  a fair  violinist,  Fiddler  Paul  was  in 
demand  at  all  festivities,  but  he  was  a shiftless 
drunkard  and  it  was  even  whispered  that  he  had 
a wife  already  in  Lower  Canada.  Renaud  very 
properly  dismissed  him  when  he  came  to  urge 
his  suit,  but  dismissed  him  in  vain.  Ninette, 
obedient  in  all  else,  would  not  give  up  her 
lover.  The  very  day  after  her  father  had 
ordered  him  away  she  promised  to  meet  him 
in  the  woods  just  across  the  river.  It  was  easy 
to  arrange  this,  for  she  was  a good  Catholic, 
and  across  the  ice  to  the  church  was  shorter 
than  going  around  by  the  bridge.  As  she  went 
through  the  snowy  wood  to  the  tryst  she  no- 
ticed that  a large  gray  Dog  was  following.  It 
seemed  quite  friendly,  and  the  child  (for  she 
was  still  that)  had  no  fear,  but  when  she  came 
to  the  place  where  Paul  was  waiting,  the  gray 
Dog  went  forward  rumbling  in  its  chest.  Paul 
gave  one  look,  knew  it  for  a huge  Wolf,  then 
fled  like  the  coward  he  was.  He  afterward 


31 1 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


said  he  ran  for  his  gun.  He  must  have  for- 
gotten where  it  was,  as  he  climbed  the  nearest 
tree  to  find  it.  Meanwhile  Ninette  ran  home 
across  the  ice  to  tell  Paul’s  friends  of  his 
danger.  Not  finding  any  firearms  up  the  tree, 
the  valiant  lover  made  a spear  by  fastening  his 
knife  to  a branch  and  succeeded  in  giving 
Garou  a painful  wound  on  the  head.  The 
savage  creature  growled  horribly  but  thence- 
forth kept  at  a safe  distance,  though  plainly 
showing  his  intention  to  wait  till  the  man  came 
down.  But  the  approach  of  a band  of  rescuers 
changed  his  mind,  and  he  went  away. 

Fiddler  Paul  found  it  easier  to  explain  mat- 
ters to  Ninette  than  he  would  to  any  one  else. 
He  still  stood  first  in  her  affections,  but  so  hope- 
lessly ill  with  her  father  that  they  decided  on 
an  elopement,  as  soon  as  he  should  return  from 
Fort  Alexander,  whither  he  was  to  go  for  the 
Company,  as  dog-driver.  The  Factor  was 
very  proud  of  his  train  Dogs — three  great 
Huskies  with  curly,  bushy  tails,  big  and  strong 
as  Calves,  but  fierce  and  lawless  as  pirates. 
With  these  the  Fiddler  Paul  was  to  drive  to 
Fort  Alexander  from  Fort  Garry — the  bearer  of 


C 


312 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

several  important  packets.  He  was  an  expert 
Dog-driver,  which  usually  means  relentlessly 
cruel.  He  set  off  blithely  down  the  river 
in  the  morning,  after  the  several  necessary 
drinks  of  whiskey.  He  expected  to  be  gone 
a week,  and  would  then  come  back  with 
twenty  dollars  in  his  pocket,  and  having  thus 
provided  the  sinews  of  war,  would  carry  out 
the  plan  of  elopement.  Away  they  went  down 
the  river  on  the  ice.  The  big  Dogs  pulled 
swiftly  but  sulkily  as  he  cracked  the  long  whip 
and  shouted,  “ Allez,  allez , marchez .”  They 

passed  at  speed  by  Renaud’s  shanty  on  the 
bank,  and  Paul,  cracking  his  whip  and  running 
behind  the  train,  waved  his  hand  to  Ninette 
as  she  stood  by  the  door.  Speedily  the  cariole 
with  the  sulky  Dogs  and  drunken  driver  disap- 
peared around  the  bend — and  that  was  the 
last  ever  seen  of  Fiddler  Paul. 

That  evening  the  Huskies  came  back  singly  to 
Fort  Garry.  They  were  spattered  with  frozen 
blood,  and  were  gashed  in  several  places.  But 
strange  to  tell  they  were  quite  “ unhungry.” 

Runners  went  on  the  back  trail  and  recov- 
ered the  packages.  They  were  lying  on  the 


3i3 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

ice  unharmed.  Fragments  of  the  sled  were 
strewn  for  a mile  or  more  up  the  river ; not  far 
from  the  packages  were  shreds  of  clothing  that 
had  belonged  to  the  Fiddler. 

It  was  quite  clear,  the  Dogs  had  murdered 
and  eaten  their  driver. 

The  Factor  was  terribly  wrought  up  over 
the  matter.  It  might  cost  him  his  Dogs.  He 
refused  to  believe  the  report  and  set  off  to  sift 
the  evidence  for  himself.  Renaud  was  chosen 
to  go  with  him,  and  before  they  were  within 
three  miles  of  the  fatal  place  Renaud  pointed 
to  a very  large  track  crossing  from  the  east 
to  the  west  bank  of  the  river,  just  after  the 
Dog  sled.  He  ran  it  backward  for  a mile  or 
more  on  the  eastern  bank,  noted  how  it  had 
walked  when  the  Dogs  walked  and  run  when 
they  ran,  before  he  turned  to  the  Factor  and 
said : “ A beeg  Voolf— he  come  after  ze  cariole 
all  ze  time.” 

Now  they  followed  the  track  where  it  had 
crossed  to  the  west  shore.  Two  miles  above 
Kildonan  woods  the  Wolf  had  stopped  his  gal- 
lop to  walk  over  to  the  sled  trail,  had  followed 
it  a few  yards,  then  had  returned  to  the  woods. 


3H 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

“Paul  he  drop  somesin’  here,  ze  packet 
maybe ; ze  Voolf  he  come  for  smell.  He  fol- 
low so — now  he  know  zat  eez  ze  drunken  Paul 
vot  slash  heem  on  ze  head.” 

A mile  farther  the  Wolf  track  came  galloping 
on  the  ice  behind  the  cariole.  The  man  track 
disappeared  now,  for  the  driver  had  leaped  on 
the  sled  and  lashed  the  Dogs.  Here  is  where 
he  cut  adrift  the  bundles.  That  is  why  things 
were  scattered  over  the  ice.  See  how  the  Dogs 
were  bounding  under  the  lash.  Here  was  the 
Fiddler’s  knife  in  the  snow.  He  must  have 
dropped  it  in  trying  to  use  it  on  the  Wolf. 
And  here — what!  the  Wolf  track  disappears, 
but  the  sled  track  speeds  along.  The  Wolf 
has  leaped  on  the  sled.  The  Dogs,  in  terror, 
added  to  their  speed ; but  on  the  sleigh  behind 
them  there  is  a deed  of  vengeance  done.  In  a 
moment  it  is  over ; both  roll  off  the  sled ; the 
Wolf  track  reappears  on  the  east  side  to  seek 
the  woods.  The  sled  swerves  to  the  west  bank, 
where,  after  half  a mile,  it  is  caught  and 
wrecked  on  a root. 

The  snow  also  told  Renaud  how  the  Dogs, 
entangled  in  the  harness,  had  fought  with  each 
3i5 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

other,  had  cut  themselves  loose,  and  trotting 
homeward  by  various  ways  up  the  river,  had 
gathered  at  the  body  of  their  late  tyrant  and 
devoured  him  at  a meal. 

Bad  enough  for  the  Dogs,  still  they  were 
cleared  of  the  murder.  That  certainly  was 
done  by  the  Wolf,  and  Renaud,  after  the  shock 
of  horror  was  past,  gave  a sigh  of  relief  and 
added,  “Eet  is  le  Garou.  He  hab  save  my 
leel  girl  from  zat  Paul.  He  always  was  good 
to  children.” 

VI 

This  was  the  cause  of  the  great  final  hunt 
that  they  fixed  for  Christmas  Day  just  two  years 
after  the  scene  at  the  grave  of  Little  Jim.  It 
seemed  as  though  all  the  Dogs  in  the  country 
were  brought  together.  The  three  Huskies 
were  there — the  Factor  considered  them  essen- 
tial— there  were  Danes  and  trailers  and  a rab- 
ble of  farm  Dogs  and  nondescripts.  They 
spent  the  morning  beating  all  the  woods  east 
of  St.  Boniface  and  had  no  success.  But  a tele- 
phone message  came  that  the  trail  they  sought 
had  been  seen  near  the  Assiniboine  woods  west 
3i6 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

of  the  city,  and  an  hour  later  the  hunt  was 
yelling  on  the  hot  scent  of  the  Winnipeg  Wolf. 

Away  they  went,  a rabble  of  Dogs,  a motley 
rout  of  horsemen,  a mob  of  men  and  boys  on 
foot.  Garou  had  no  fear  of  the  Dogs,  but 
men  he  knew  had  guns  and  were  dangerous. 
He  led  off  for  the  dark  timber  line  of  the  As- 
siniboine,  but  the  horsemen  had  open  country 
and  they  headed  him  back.  He  coursed  along 
the  Colony  Creek  hollow  and  so  eluded  the 
bullets  already  flying.  He  made  for  a barb- 
wire fence,  and  passing  that  he  got  rid  of  the 
horsemen  for  a time,  but  still  must  keep  the 
hollow  that  baffled  the  bullets.  The  Dogs 
were  now  closing  on  him.  All  he  might  have 
asked  would  probably  have  been  to  be  left  alone 
with  them — forty  or  fifty  to  one  as  they  were — 
he  would  have  taken  the  odds.  The  Dogs  were 
all  around  him  now,  but  none  dared  to  close  in. 
A lanky  Hound,  trusting  to  his  speed,  ran 
alongside  at  length  and  got  a side  chop  from 
Garou  that  laid  him  low.  The  horsemen  were 
forced  to  take  a distant  way  around,  but  now 
the  chase  was  toward  the  town,  and  more  men 
and  Dogs  came  running  out  to  join  the  fray. 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

The  Wolf  turned  toward  the  slaughter-house, 
a familiar  resort,  and  the  shooting  ceased  on 
account  of  the  houses,  as  well  as  the  Dogs,  being 
so  near.  These  were  indeed  now  close  enough 
to  encircle  him  and  hinder  all  further  flight. 
He  looked  for  a place  to  guard  his  rear  for  a 
final  stand,  and  seeing  a wooden  foot-bridge 
over  a gutter  he  sprang  in,  there  faced  about 
and  held  the  pack  at  bay.  The  men  got  bars 
and  demolished  the  bridge.  He  leaped  out, 
knowing  now  that  he  had  to  die,  but  ready, 
wishing  only  to  make  a worthy  fight,  and 
then  for  the  first  time  in  broad  day  view  of  all 
his  foes  he  stood— the  shadowy  Dog-killer,  the 
disembodied  voice  of  St.  Boniface  woods,  the 
wonderful  Winnipeg  Wolf. 

VII 

At  last  after  three  long  years  of  fight  he 
stood  before  them  alone,  confronting  twoscore 
Dogs,  and  men  with  guns  to  back  them — but 
facing  them  just  as  resolutely  as  I saw  him  that 
day  in  the  wintry  woods.  The  same  old  curl 
was  on  his  lips — the  hard-knit  flanks  heaved 
318 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 


just  a little,  but  his  green  and  yellow  eye 
glowed  steadily.  The  Dogs  closed  in,  led  not 
by  the  huge  Huskies  from  the  woods — they 
evidently  knew  too  much  for  that — but  by  a 
Bulldog  from  the  town ; there  was  scuffling  of 
many  feet ; a low  rumbling  for  a time  replaced 
the  yapping  of  the  pack ; a flashing  of  those 
red  and  grizzled  jaws,  a momentary  hurl  back 
of  the  onset,  and  again  he  stood  alone  and 
braced,  the  grim  and  grand  old  bandit  that  he 
was.  Three  times  they  tried  and  suffered. 
Their  boldest  were  lying  about  him.  The  first 
to  go  down  was  the  Bulldog.  Learning  wis- 
dom now,  the  Dogs  held  back,  less  sure ; but 
his  square-built  chest  showed  never  a sign  of 
weakness  yet,  and  after  waiting  impatiently  he 
advanced  a few  steps,  and  thus,  alas!  gave  to 
the  gunners  their  long-expected  chance.  Three 
rifles  rang,  and  in  the  snow  Garou  went  down 
at  last,  his  life  of  combat  done. 

He  had  made  his  choice.  His  days  were 
short  and  crammed  with  quick  events.  His 
tale  of  many  peaceful  years  was  spent  in  three 
of  daily  brunt.  He  picked  his  trail,  a new 
trail,  high  and  short.  He  chose  to  drink  his 


3i9 


The  Winnipeg  Wolf 

cup  at  a single  gulp,  and  break  the  glass— but 
he  left  a deathless  name. 

Who  can  look  into  the  mind  of  the  Wolf? 
Who  can  show  us  his  wellspring  of  motive? 
Why  should  he  still  cling  to  a place  of  endless 
tribulation?  It  could  not  be  because  he  knew 
no  other  country,  for  the  region  is  limitless, 
food  is  everywhere,  and  he  was  known  at  least 
as  far  as  Selkirk.  Nor  could  his  motive  be  re- 
venge. No  animal  will  give  up  its  whole  life 
to  seeking  revenge ; that  evil  kind  of  mind  is 
found  in  man  alone.  The  brute  creation  seeks 
for  peace. 

There  is  then  but  one  remaining  bond  to 
chain  him,  and  that  the  strongest  claim  that 
anything  can  own — the  mightiest  force  on  earth. 

The  Wolf  is  gone.  The  last  relic  of  him 
was  lost  in  the  burning  Grammar  School,  but 
to  this  day  the  sexton  of  St.  Boniface  Church 
avers  that  the  tolling  bell  on  Christmas  Eve 
never  fails  to  provoke  that  weird  and  melan- 
choly Wolf-cry  from  the  wooded  graveyard  a 
hundred  steps  away,  where  they  laid  his  Little 
Jim,  the  only  being  on  earth  that  ever  met  him 
with  the  touch  of  love. 


320 


The  Legend  of  the  White 
Reindeer 


Skoal!  Skoal!  For  Norway  Skoal! 

Sing  ye  the  song  of  the  Vand-dam  troll. 
When  I am  hiding 
Norway’s  luck 
On  a White  Storbuk 
Comes  riding,  riding. 


THE  SETTING 


LEAK,  black,  deep,  and  cold 
is  Utrovand,  a long  pocket 
of  glacial  water,  a crack 
in  the  globe,  a wrinkle  in 
the  high  Norwegian  moun- 
tains, blocked  with  another 
mountain,  and  flooded  with 
a frigid  flood,  three  thousand  feet  above  its 
Mother  Sea,  and  yet  no  closer  to  its  Father  Sun. 


323 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

Around  its  cheerless  shore  is  a belt  of  stunted 
trees,  that  sends  a long  tail  up  the  high  valley, 
till  it  dwindles  away  to  sticks  and  moss,  as  it 
also  does  some  half-way  up  the  granite  hills  that 
rise  a thousand  feet,  encompassing  the  lake. 
This  is  the  limit  of  trees,  the  end  of  the  growth 
of  wood.  The  birch  and  willow  are  the  last  to 
drop  out  of  the  long  fight  with  frost.  Their  min- 
iature thickets  are  noisy  with  the  cries  of  Field- 
fare, Pipit,  and  Ptarmigan,  but  these  are  left  be- 
hind on  nearing  the  upper  plateau,  where  shade 
of  rock  and  sough  of  wind  are  all  that  take  their 
place.  The  chilly  Hoifjeld  rolls  away,  a rugged, 
rocky  plain,  with  great  patches  of  snow  in  all 
the  deeper  hollows,  and  the  distance  blocked 
by  snowy  peaks  that  rise  and  roll  and  whiter 
gleam,  till,  dim  and  dazzling  in  the  north,  up- 
lifts the  Jotunheim,  the  home  of  spirits,  of  gla- 
ciers, and  of  the  lasting  snow. 

The  treeless  stretch  is  one  vast  attest  to  the 
force  of  heat.  Each  failure  of  the  sun  by  one 
degree  is  marked  by  a lower  realm  of  life.  The 
northern  slope  of  each  hollow  is  less  boreal 
than  its  southern  side.  The  pine  and  spruce 
have  given  out  long  ago ; the  mountain-ash 


324 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

went  next;  the  birch  and  willow  climbed  up 
half  the  slope.  Here,  nothing  grows  but  creep- 
ing plants  and  moss.  The  plain  itself  is  pale 
grayish  green,  one  vast  expanse  of  reindeer- 
moss,  but  warmed  at  spots  into  orange  by  great 
beds  of  polytrichum,  and,  in  sunnier  nooks, 
deepened  to  a herbal  green.  The  rocks  that  are 
scattered  everywhere  are  of  a delicate  lilac,  but 
each  is  variegated  with  spreading  frill-edged 
plasters  of  gray-green  lichen  or  orange  powder- 
streaks  and  beauty-spots  of  black.  These  rocks 
have  great  power  to  hold  the  heat,  so  that  each 
of  them  is  surrounded  by  a little  belt  of  heat- 
loving  plants  that  could  not  otherwise  live  so 
high.  Dwarfed  representatives  of  the  birch 
and  willow  both  are  here,  hugging  the  genial 
rock,  as  an  old  French  habita?it  hugs  his  stove 
in  winter-time,  spreading  their  branches  over  it, 
instead  of  in  the  frigid  air.  A foot  away  is 
seen  a chillier  belt  of  heath,  and  farther  off, 
colder,  where  none  else  can  grow,  is  the  omni- 
present gray-green  reindeer-moss  that  gives  its 
color  to  the  upland.  The  hollows  are  still  filled 
with  snow,  though  now  it  is  June.  But  each  of 
these  white  expanses  is  shrinking,  spending  it- 


325 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

self  in  ice-cold  streams  that  somehow  reach  the 
lake.  These  sno-flacks  show  no  sign  of  life,  not 
even  the  ‘ red-snow  ’ tinge,  and  around  each 
is  a belt  of  barren  earth,  to  testify  that  life  and 
warmth  can  never  be  divorced. 

Birdless  and  lifeless,  the  gray-green  snow-pied 
waste  extends  over  all  the  stretch  that  is  here 
between  the  timber-line  and  the  snow-line, 
above  which  winter  never  quits  its  hold.  Far- 
ther north  both  come  lower,  till  the  timber-line 
is  at  the  level  of  the  sea ; and  all  the  land  is  in 
that  treeless  belt  called  Tundra  in  the  Old  World, 
and  Barrens  in  the  New,  and  that  everywhere 
is  the  Home  of  the  Reindeer — the  Realm  of  the 
Reindeer-moss. 

I 

In  and  out  it  flew,  in  and  out,  over  the  water 
and  under,  as  the  Varsimle,  the  leader  doe  of 
the  Reindeer  herd,  walked  past  on  the  vernal 
banks,  and  it  sang : — 

“Skoal/  Skoal ! G anile  Norge  Skoal ! ” and 
more  about  “a  White  Reindeer  and  Norway’s 
good  luck,”  as  though  the  singer  were  gifted 
with  special  insight. 


326 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

When  old  Sveggum  built  the  Vand-dam  on 
the  Lower  Hoifjeld,  just  above  the  Utrovand, 
and  set  his  ribesten  a-going,  he  supposed  that 
he  was  the  owner  of  it  all.  But  some  one  was 
there  before  him.  And  in  and  out  of  the  spout- 
ing stream  this  some  one  dashed,  and  sang 
songs  that  he  made  up  to  fit  the  place  and  the 
time.  He  skipped  from  skjcEke  to  skjczke  of  the 
wheel,  and  did  many  things  which  Sveggum 
could  set  down  only  to  luck — whatever  that  is ; 
and  some  said  that  Sveggum’s  luck  was  a 
Wheel-troll,  a Water-fairy,  with  a brown  coat 
and  a white  beard,  one  that  lived  on  land  or 
in  water,  as  he  pleased. 

But  most  of  Sveggum’s  neighbors  saw  only 
a Fossekal,  the  little  Waterfall  Bird  that  came 
each  year  and  danced  in  the  stream,  or  dived 
where  the  pool  is  deep.  And  maybe  both  were 
right,  for  some  of  the  very  oldest  peasants  will 
tell  you  that  a Fairy-troll  may  take  the  form  of 
a man  or  the  form  of  a bird.  Only  this  bird 
lived  a life  no  bird  can  live,  and  sang  songs 
that  men  never  had  sung  in  Norway.  Wonder- 
ful vision  had  he,  and  sights  he  saw  that  man 
never  saw.  For  the  Fieldfare  would  build  be- 


327 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

fore  him,  and  the  Lemming  fed  its  brood  under 
his  very  eyes.  Eyes  were  they  to  see  ; for  the 
dark  speck  on  Suletind  that  man  could  barely 
glimpse  was  a Reindeer,  with  half-shed  coat,  to 
him ; and  the  green  slime  on  the  Yandren  was 
beautiful  green  pasture  with  a banquet  spread. 

Oh,  Man  is  so  blind,  and  makes  himself  so 
hated!  But  Fossekal  harmed  none,  so  none 
were  afraid  of  him.  Only  he  sang,  and  his  songs 
were  sometimes  mixed  with  fun  and  prophecy, 
or  perhaps  a little  scorn. 

From  the  top  of  the  tassel-birch  he  could 
mark  the  course  of  the  Vand-dam  stream  past 
the  Nystuen  hamlet  to  lose  itself  in  the  gloomy 
waters  of  Utrovand;  or  by  a higher  flight  he 
could  see  across  the  barren  upland  that  rolled 
to  Jotunheim  in  the  north. 

The  great  awakening  was  on  now.  The 
springtime  had  already  reached  the  woods; 
the  valleys  were  a-throb  with  life ; new  birds 
coming  from  the  south,  winter  sleepers  reap- 
pearing, and  the  Reindeer  that  had  wintered  in 
the  lower  woods  should  soon  again  be  seen  on 
the  uplands. 

Not  without  a fight  do  the  Frost  Giants  give 
328 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

up  the  place  so  long  their  own ; a great  battle 
was  in  progress ; but  the  Sun  was  slowly,  surely 
winning,  and  driving  them  back  to  their  Jotun- 
heim.  At  every  hollow  and  shady  place  they 
made  another  stand,  or  sneaked  back  by  night, 
only  to  suffer  another  defeat.  Hard  hitters 
these,  as  they  are  stubborn  fighters ; many  a 
granite  rock  was  split  and  shattered  by  their 
blows  in  reckless  fight,  so  that  its  inner  fleshy 
tints  were  shown  and  warmly  gleamed  among 
the  gray-green  rocks  that  dotted  the  plain,  like 
the  countless  flocks  of  Thor.  More  or  less  of 
these  may  be  found  at  every  place  of  battle- 
brunt,  and  straggled  along  the  slope  of  Sule- 
tind  was  a host  that  reached  for  half  a mile. 
But  stay!  these  moved.  Not  rocks  were  they, 
but  living  creatures. 

They  drifted  along  erratically,  yet  one  way, 
all  up  the  wind.  They  swept  out  of  sight  in  a 
hollow,  to  reappear  on  a ridge  much  nearer, 
and  serried  there  against  the  sky,  we  marked 
their  branching  horns,  and  knew  them  for  the 
Reindeer  in  their  home. 

The  band  came  drifting  our  way,  feeding 
like  Sheep,  grunting  like  only  themselves.  Each 


329 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

one  found  a grazing-spot,  stood  there  till  it  was 
cleared  off,  then  trotted  on  crackling  hoofs  to 
the  front  in  search  of  another.  So  the  band  was 
ever  changing  in  rank  and  form.  But  one 
there  was  that  was  always  at  or  near  the  van — a 
large  and  well-favored  Simle,  or  Hind.  However 
much  the  band  might  change  and  spread,  she 
was  in  the  forefront,  and  the  observant  would 
soon  have  seen  signs  that  she  had  an  influence 
over  the  general  movement — that  she,  indeed, 
was  the  leader.  Even  the  big  Bucks,  in  their 
huge  velvet-clad  antlers,  admitted  this  untitular 
control ; and  if  one,  in  a spirit  of  independence, 
evinced  a disposition  to  lead  elsewhere,  he  soon 
found  himself  uncomfortably  alone. 

The  V arsimle,  or  leading  Hind,  had  kept  the 
band  hovering,  for  the  last  week  or  two,  along 
the  timber-line,  going  higher  each  day  to  the 
baring  uplands,  where  the  snow  was  clearing 
and  the  deer-flies  were  blown  away.  As  the 
pasture  zone  had  climbed  she  had  followed  in 
her  daily  foraging,  returning  to  the  sheltered 
woods  at  sundown,  for  the  wild  things  fear  the 
cold  night  wind  even  as  man  does.  But  now 
the  deer-flies  were  rife  in  the  woods,  and  the 


330 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


rocky  hillside  nooks  warm  enough  for  the 
nightly  bivouac,  so  the  woodland  was  deserted. 

Probably  the  leader  of  a band  of  animals 
does  not  consciously  pride  itself  on  leader- 
ship, yet  has  an  uncomfortable  sensation  when 
not  followed.  But  there  are  times  with  all 
when  solitude  is  sought.  The  Varsimle  had 
been  fat  and  well  through  the  winter,  yet  now 
was  listless,  and  lingered  with  drooping  head  as 
the  grazing  herd  moved  past  her. 

Sometimes  she  stood  gazing  blankly  while 
the  unchewed  bunch  of  moss  hung  from  her 
mouth,  then  roused  to  go  on  to  the  front  as 
before ; but  the  spells  of  vacant  stare  and  the 
hankering  to  be  alone  grew  stronger.  She 
turned  downward  to  seek  the  birch  woods,  but 
the  whole  band  turned  with  her.  She  stood 
stock-still,  with  head  down.  They  grazed  and 
grunted  past,  leaving  her  like  a statue  against 
the  hillside.  When  all  had  gone  on,  she  slunk 
quietly  away  ; walked  a few  steps,  looked  about, 
made  a pretense  of  grazing,  snuffed  the  ground, 
looked  after  the  herd,  and  scanned  the  hills ; then 
downward  fared  toward  the  sheltering  woods. 

Once  as  she  peered  over  a bank  she  sighted 


33i 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

another  Simle,  a doe  Reindeer,  uneasily  wan- 
dering by  itself.  But  the  Varsimle  wished  not 
for  company.  She  did  not  know  why,  but  she 
felt  that  she  must  hide  away  somewhere. 

She  stood  still  until  the  other  had  passed  on, 
then  turned  aside,  and  went  with  faster  steps 
and  less  wavering,  till  she  came  in  view  of  Utro- 
vand,  away  down  by  the  little  stream  that  turns 
old  Sveggum’s  ribesten.  Up  above  the  dam 
she  waded  across  the  limpid  stream,  for  deep- 
laid  and  sure  is  the  instinct  of  a wild  animal  to 
put  running  water  between  itself  and  those  it 
shuns.  Then,  on  the  farther  bank,  now  bare 
and  slightly  green,  she  turned,  and  passing  in 
and  out  among  the  twisted  trunks,  she  left  the 
noisy  Vand-dam.  On  the  higher  ground  be- 
yond she  paused,  looked  this  way  and  that, 
went  on  a little,  but  returned ; and  here,  com- 
pletely shut  in  by  softly  painted  rocks,  and 
birches  wearing  little  springtime  hangers,  she 
seemed  inclined  to  rest ; yet  not  to  rest,  for  she 
stood  uneasily  this  way  and  that,  driving  away 
the  flies  that  settled  on  her  legs,  heeding  not  at 
all  the  growing  grass,  and  thinking  she  was  hid 
from  all  the  world. 


332 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

But  nothing  escapes  the  Fossekal.  He  had 
seen  her  leave  the  herd,  and  now  he  sat  on  a 
gorgeous  rock  that  overhung,  and  sang  as 
though  he  had  waited  for  this  and  knew  that 
the  fate  of  the  nation  might  turn  on  what 
passed  in  this'  far  glen.  He  sang : 


Skoal!  Skoal!  For  Norway  Skoal! 

Sing  ye  the  song  of  the  Vand-dam  troll. 

When  I am  hiding 
Norway’s  luck 
On  a White  Storbuk 
Comes  riding,  riding. 

There  are  no  Storks  in  Norway,  and  yet  an 
hour  later  there  was  a wonderful  little  Reindeer 
lying  beside  the  Varsimle.  She  was  brushing 
his  coat,  licking  and  mothering  him,  proud  and 
happy  as  though  this  was  the  first  little  Rens- 
kalv  ever  born.  There  might  be  hundreds 
born  in  the  herd  that  month,  but  probably  no 
more  like  this  one,  for  he  was  snowy  white, 
and  the  song  of  the  singer  on  the  painted  rock 
was  about 


Good  luck,  good  luck, 
And  a White  Storbuk, 


333 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

as  though  he  foresaw  clearly  the  part  that  the 
White  Calf  was  to  play  when  he  grew  to  be  a 
Storbuk. 

But  another  wonder  now  came  to  pass.  Be- 
fore an  hour,  there  was  a second  little  Calf — 
a brown  one  this  time.  Strange  things  happen, 
and  hard  things  are  done  when  they  needs 
must.  Two  hours  later,  when  the  Varsimle 
led  the  White  Calf  away  from  the  place,  there 
was  no  Brown  Calf,  only  some  flattened  rags 
with  calf-hair  on  them. 

The  mother  was  wise : better  one  strangling 
than  two  weaklings.  Within  a few  days  the 
Simle  once  more  led  the  band,  and  running  by 
her  side  was  the  White  Calf.  The  Varsimle 
considered  him  in  all  things,  so  that  he  really 
set  the  pace  for  the  band,  which  suited  very 
well  all  the  mothers  that  now  had  Calves  with 
them.  Big,  strong,  and  wise  was  the  Varsimle, 
in  the  pride  of  her  strength,  and  this  White  Calf 
was  the  flower  of  her  prime.  He  often  ran 
ahead  of  his  mother  as  she  led  the  herd,  and 
Rol,  coming  on  them  one  day,  laughed  aloud 
at  the  sight  as  they  passed,  old  and  young,  fat 
Simle  and  antlered  Storbuk,  a great  brown 


334 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


herd,  all  led,  as  it  seemed,  by  a little  White 
Calf. 

So  they  drifted  away  to  the  high  mountains, 
to  be  gone  all  summer.  “ Gone  to  be  taught 
by  the  spirits  who  dwell  where  the  Black  Loon 
laughs  on  the  ice,”  said  Lief  of  the  Lower 
Dale;  but  Sveggum,  who  had  always  been 
among  the  Reindeer,  said : “ Their  mothers 
are  the  teachers,  even  as  ours  are.” 

When  the  autumn  came,  old  Sveggum  saw  a 
moving  sno-flack  far  off  on  the  brown  moor- 
land ; but  the  Troll  saw  a white  yearling,  a 
Nekbuk;  and  when  they  ranged  alongside  of 
Utrovand  to  drink,  the  still  sheet  seemed  fully 
to  reflect  the  White  One,  though  it  barely 
sketched  in  the  others,  with  the  dark  hills  be- 
hind. 

Many  a little  Calf  had  come  that  spring,  and 
had  drifted  away  on  the  moss-barrens,  to  come 
back  no  more ; for  some  were  weaklings  and 
some  were  fools  ; some  fell  by  the  way,  for  that 
is  law;  and  some  would  not  learn  the  rules, 
and  so  died.  But  the  White  Calf  was  strongest 
of  them  all,  and  he  was  wise,  so  he  learned  of 
his  mother,  who  was  wisest  of  them  all.  He 


335 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


learned  that  the  grass  on  the  sun  side  of  a rock 
is  sweet,  and  though  it  looks  the  same  in  the 
dark  hollows,  it  is  there  worthless.  He  learned 
that  when  his  mother’s  hoofs  crackled  he  must 
be  up  and  moving,  and  when  all  the  herd’s 
hoofs  crackled  there  was  danger,  and  he  must 
keep  by  his  mother’s  side.  For  this  crackling 
is  like  the  whistling  of  a Whistler  Duck’s  wings : 
it  is  to  keep  the  kinds  together.  He  learned 
that  where  the  little  Bomuldblomster  hangs  its 
cotton  tufts  is  dangerous  bog;  that  the  harsh 
cackle  of  the  Ptarmigan  means  that  close  at 
hand  are  Eagles,  as  dangerous  for  Fawn  as  for 
Bird.  He  learned  that  the  little  troll-berries  are 
deadly,  that  when  the  verra-fi. ies  come  stinging 
he  must  take  refuge  on  a snow-patch,  and  that  of 
all  animal  smells  only  that  of  his  mother  was  to 
be  fully  trusted.  He  learned  that  he  was  growing. 
His  flat  calf  sides  and  big  joints  were  changing 
to  the  full  barrel  and  clean  limbs  of  the  Yearling, 
and  the  little  bumps  which  began  to  show  on 
his  head  when  he  was  only  a fortnight  old  were 
now  sharp,  hard  spikes  that  could  win  in  fight. 

More  than  once  they  had  smelt  that  dreaded 
destroyer  of  the  north  that  men  call  the  Gjerv 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


, f ,v,(i 


or  Wolverene ; and  one  day,  as  this  danger- 
scent  came  suddenly  and  in  great  strength,  a 
huge  blot  of  dark  brown  sprang  rumbling  from 
a rocky  ledge,  and  straight  for  the  foremost — 
the  White  Calf.  His  eye  caught  the  flash  of  a 
whirling,  shaggy  mass,  with  gleaming  teeth  and 
eyes,  hot-breathed  and  ferocious.  Blank  hor- 
ror set  his  hair  on  end ; his  nostrils  flared  in 
fear:  but  before  he  fled  there  rose  within  an- 
other feeling — one  of  anger  at  the  breaker  of 
his  peace,  a sense  that  swept  all  fear  away, 
braced  his  legs,  and  set  his  horns  at  charge. 
The  brown  brute  landed  with  a deep-chested 
growl,  to  be  received  on  the  young  one’s  spikes. 
They  pierced  him  deeply,  but  the  shock  was 
overmuch ; it  bore  the  White  One  down,  and  he 
might  yet  have  been  killed  but  that  his  mother, 
alert  and  ever  near,  now  charged  the  attacking 
monster,  and  heavier,  better  armed,  she  hurled 
and  speared  him  to  the  ground.  And  the 
White  Calf,  with  a very  demon  glare  in  his  once 
mild  eyes,  charged  too ; and  even  after  the 
Wolverene  was  a mere  hairy  mass,  and  his 
mother  had  retired  to  feed,  he  came,  snorting 
out  his  rage,  to  drive  his  spikes  into  the  hateful 


T 


337 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

thing,  till  his  snowy  head  was  stained  with  his 
adversary’s  blood. 

Thus  he  showed  that  below  the  ox-like  calm 
exterior  was  the  fighting  beast ; that  he  was 
like  the  men  of  the  north,  rugged,  square-built, 
calm,  slow  to  wrath,  but  when  aroused  “ seeing 
red.” 

When  they  ranked  together  by  the  lake  that 
fall,  the  Fossekal  sang  his  old  song: 

When  I am  hiding 
Norway’s  luck 
On  a White  Storbuk 
Comes  riding,  riding, 

as  though  this  was  something  he  had  awaited, 
then  disappeared  no  one  knew  where.  Old 
Sveggum  had  seen  it  flying  through  the  stream, 
as  birds  fly  through  the  air,  walking  in  the  bot- 
tom of  a deep  pond  as  a Ptarmigan  walks  on 
the  rocks,  living  as  no  bird  can  live ; and  now 
the  old  man  said  it  had  simply  gone  southward 
for  the  winter.  But  old  Sveggum  could  neither 
read  nor  write:  how  should  he  know? 


338 


The  White  Renskalv  Facing  the  Wolverene. 


IsilSlralli 


r 


H 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


ii 

Each  springtime  when  the  Reindeer  passed 
over  Sveggum’s  mill-run,  as  they  moved  from 
the  lowland  woods  to  the  bleaker  shore  of  Utro- 
vand,  the  Fossekal  was  there  to  sing  about 
the  White  Storbuk,  which  each  year  became 
more  truly  the  leader. 

That  first  spring  he  stood  little  higher  than  a 
Hare.  When  he  came  to  drink  in  the  autumn, 
his  back  was  above  the  rock  where  Sveggum’s 
stream  enters  Utrovand.  Next  year  he  barely 
passed  under  the  stunted  birch,  and  the  third 
year  the  Fossekal  on  the  painted  rock  was  look- 
ing up,  not  down,  at  him  as  he  passed.  This 
was  the  autumn  when  Rol  and  Sveggum  sought 
the  Hoifjeld  to  round  up  their  half-wild  herd 
and  select  some  of  the  strongest  for  the  sled. 
There  was  but  one  opinion  about  the  Storbuk. 
Higher  than  the  others,  heavier,  white  as  snow, 
with  a mane  that  swept  the  shallow  drifts, 
breasted  like  a Horse  and  with  horns  like  a 
storm-grown  oak,  he  was  king  of  the  herd,  and 
might  easily  be  king  of  the  road. 


34i 


I 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

There  are  two  kinds  of  deer-breakers,  as 
there  are  two  kinds  of  horse-breakers:  one 
that  tames  and  teaches  the  animal,  and  gets  a 
spirited,  friendly  helper;  one  that  aims  to 
break  its  spirit,  and  gets  only  a sullen  slave, 
ever  ready  to  rebel  and  wreak  its  hate.  Many 
a Lapp  and  many  a Norsk  has  paid  with  his 
life  for  brutality  to  his  Reindeer,  and  RoPs 
days  were  shortened  by  his  own  pulk-Ren. 
But  Sveggum  was  of  gentler  sort.  To  him  fell 
the  training  of  the  White  Storbuk.  It  was  slow, 
for  the  Buck  resented  all  liberties  from  man,  as 
he  did  from  his  brothers;  but  kindness,  not 
fear,  was  the  power  that  tamed  him,  and  when 
he  had  learned  to  obey  and  glory  in  the  sled 
race,  it  was  a noble  sight  to  see  the  great  white 
mild-eyed  beast  striding  down  the  long  snow- 
stretch  of  Utrovand,  the  steam  jetting  from  his 
nostrils,  the  snow  swirling  up  before  like  the 
curling  waves  on  a steamer’s  bow,  sled,  driver, 
and  Deer  all  dim  in  flying  white. 

Then  came  the  Yule-tide  Fair,  with  the  races 
on  the  ice,  and  Utrovand  for  once  was  gay. 
The  sullen  hills  about  reechoed  with  merry 
shouting.  The  Reindeer  races  were  first,  with 


342 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

many  a mad  mischance  for  laughter.  Rol 
himself  was  there  with  his  swiftest  sled  Deer,  a 
tall,  dark,  five-year-old,  in  his  primest  prime. 
But  over-eager,  over-brutal,  he  harried  the  sul- 
len, splendid  slave  till  in  mid-race — just  when 
in  a way  to  win — it  turned  at  a cruel  blow,  and 
Rol  took  refuge  under  the  upturned  sled  until 
it  had  vented  its  rage  against  the  wood ; and 
so  he  lost  the  race,  and  the  winner  was  the 
young  White  Storbuk.  Then  he  won  the  five- 
mile  race  around  the  lake ; and  for  each  tri- 
umph Sveggum  hung  a little  silver  bell  on  his 
harness,  so  that  now  he  ran  and  won  to  merry 
music. 

Then  came  the  Horse  races,— running  races 
these ; the  Reindeer  only  trots, — and  when 
Balder,  the  victor  Horse,  received  his  ribbon 
and  his  owner  the  purse,  came  Sveggum  with 
all  his  winnings  in  his  hand,  and  said : “ Ho, 
Lars,  thine  is  a fine  Horse,  but  mine  is  a better 
Storbuk ; let  us  put  our  winnings  together  and 
race,  each  his  beast,  for  all.” 

A Ren  against  a Race-horse — such  a race 
was  never  seen  till  now.  Off  at  the  pistol-crack 
they  flew.  “ Ho,  Balder!  {cluck!)  Ho,  hi, 


343 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

Balder!  ” Away  shot  the  beautiful  Racer,  and 
the  Storbuk,  striding  at  a slower  trot,  was  left 
behind. 

“ Ho,  Balder  ! ” “ Hi,  Storbuk  ! ” How  the 
people  cheered  as  the  Horse  went  bounding 
and  gaining  ! But  he  had  left  the  line  at  his 
top  speed;  the  Storbuk’s  rose  as  he  flew — 
faster — faster.  The  Pony  ceased  to  gain.  A 
mile  whirled  by ; the  gap  began  to  close. 
The  Pony  had  over-spurted  at  the  start,  but 
the  Storbuk  was  warming  to  his  work — strid- 
ing evenly,  swiftly,  faster  yet,  as  Sveggum  cried 
in  encouragement:  “Ho,  Storbuk!  good  Stor- 
buk ! ” or  talked  to  him  only  with  a gentle  rein. 
At  the  turning-point  the  pair  were  neck  and 
neck ; then  the  Pony — though  well  driven  and 
well  shod — slipped  on  the  ice,  and  thenceforth 
held  back  as  though  in  fear,  so  the  Storbuk 
steamed  away.  The  Pony  and  his  driver  were 
far  behind  when  a roar  from  every  human 
throat  in  Filefjeld  told  that  the  Storbuk  had 
passed  the  wire  and  won  the  race.  And  yet 
all  this  was  before  the  White  Ren  had  reached 
the  years  of  his  full  strength  and  speed. 

Once  that  day  Rol  essayed  to  drive  the 


344 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

Storbuk.  They  set  off  at  a good  pace,  the 
White  Buk  ready,  responsive  to  the  single  rein, 
and  his  mild  eyes  veiled  by  his  drooping 
lashes.  But,  without  any  reason  other  than 
the  habit  of  brutality,  Rol  struck  him.  In  a 
moment  there  was  a change.  The  Racer’s 
speed  was  checked,  all  four  legs  braced  for- 
ward till  he  stood ; the  drooping  lids  were  raised, 
the  eyes  rolled — there  was  a green  light  in 
them  now.  Three  puffs  of  steam  were  jetted 
from  each  nostril.  Rol  shouted,  then,  scent- 
ing danger,  quickly  upset  the  sled  and  hid  be- 
neath. The  Storbuk  turned  to  charge  the  sled, 
sniffing  and  tossing  the  snow  with  his  foot ; but 
little  Knute,  Sveggum’s  son,  ran  forward  and 
put  his  arms  around  the  Storbuk’s  neck ; then 
the  fierce  look  left  the  Reindeer’s  eye,  and  he 
suffered  the  child  to  lead  him  quietly  back  to 
the  starting-point.  Beware,  O driver  ! the 
Reindeer,  too,  “sees  red.” 

This  was  the  coming  of  the  White  Storbuk 
for  the  folk  of  Filefjeld. 

In  the  two  years  that  followed  he  became 
famous  throughout  that  country  as  Sveggum’s 
Storbuk,  and  many  a strange  exploit  was  told 


345 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

of  him.  In  twenty  minutes  he  could  carry  old 
Sveggum  round  the  six-mile  rim  of  Utrovand. 
When  the  snow-slide  buried  all  the  village  of 
Holaker,  it  was  the  Storbuk  that  brought  the 
word  for  help  to  Opdalstole  and  returned  again 
over  the  forty  miles  of  deep  snow  in  seven 
hours,  to  carry  brandy,  food,  and  promise  of 
speedy  aid. 

When  over- venturesome  young  Knute  Sveg- 
gumsen  broke  through  the  new  thin  ice  of 
Utrovand,  his  cry  for  help  brought  the  Storbuk 
to  the  rescue;  for  he  was  the  gentlest  of  his 
kind  and  always  ready  to  come  at  call. 

He  brought  the  drowning  boy  in  triumph  to 
the  shore,  and  as  they  crossed  the  Vand-dam 
stream,  there  was  the  Troll-bird  to  sing : 

Good  luck,  good  luck, 

With  the  White  Storbuk. 

After  which  he  disappeared  for  months — 
doubtless  dived  into  some  subaqueous  cave  to 
feast  and  revel  all  winter;  although  Sveggum 
did  not  believe  it  was  so. 


346 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


III 

How  often  is  the  fate  of  kingdoms  given 
into  child  hands,  or  even  committed  to  the 
care  of  Bird  or  Beast ! A She-wolf  nursed  the 
Roman  Empire.  A Wren  pecking  crumbs  on 
a drum-head  aroused  the  Orange  army,  it  is 
said,  and  ended  the  Stuart  reign  in  Britain. 
Little  wonder,  then,  that  to  a noble  Reindeer 
Buk  should  be  committed  the  fate  of  Norway : 
that  the  Troll  on  the  wheel  should  have  reason 
in  his  rhyme. 

These  were  troublous  times  in  Scandinavia. 
Evil  men,  traitors  at  heart,  were  sowing  dissen- 
sion between  the  brothers  Norway  and  Sweden. 
“ Down  with  the  Union  ! ” was  becoming  the 
popular  cry. 

Oh,  unwise  peoples ! If  only  you  could 
have  been  by  Sveggum’s  wheel  to  hear  the 
Troll  when  he  sang : 

The  Raven  and  the  Lion 
They  held  the  Bear  at  bay ; 

But  he  picked  the  bones  of  both 
When  they  quarrelled  by  the  way. 

347 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

Threats  of  civil  war,  of  a fight  for  indepen- 
dence, were  heard  throughout  Norway.  Meet- 
ings were  held  more  or  less  secretly,  and  at 
each  of  them  was  some  one  with  well-filled 
pockets  and  glib  tongue,  to  enlarge  on  the 
country’s  wrongs,  and  promise  assistance  from 
an  outside  irresistible  power  as  soon  as  they 
showed  that  they  meant  to  strike  for  freedom. 
No  one  openly  named  the  power.  That  was 
not  necessary ; it  was  everywhere  felt  and  un- 
derstood. Men  who  were  real  patriots  began 
to  believe  in  it.  Their  country  was  wronged. 
Here  was  one  to  set  her  right.  Men  whose 
honor  was  beyond  question  became  secret 
agents  of  this  power.  The  state  was  honey- 
combed and  mined ; society  was  a tangle  of 
plots.  The  king  was  helpless,  though  his  only 
wish  was  for  the  people’s  welfare.  Honest  and 
straightforward,  what  could  he  do  against  this 
far-reaching  machination?  The  very  advisers 
by  his  side  were  corrupted  through  mistaken 
patriotism.  The  idea  that  they  were  playing 
& Sj'J  ^ into  the  hands  of  the  foreigner  certainly  never 

entered  into  the  minds  of  these  dupes— at  least, 
not  those  of  the  rank  and  file.  One  or  two, 


348 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

tried,  selected,  and  bought  by  the  arch-enemy, 
knew  the  real  object  in  view,  and  the  chief  of 
these  was  Borgrevinck,  a former  lansman  of 
Nordlands.  A man  of  unusual  gifts,  a mem- 
ber of  the  Storthing,  a born  leader,  he  might 
have  been  prime  minister  long  ago,  but  for  the 
distrust  inspired  by  several  unprincipled  deal- 
ings. Soured  by  what  he  considered  want  of 
appreciation,  balked  in  his  ambition,  he  was  a 
ready  tool  when  the  foreign  agent  sounded 
him.  At  first  his  patriotism  had  to  be  sopped, 
but  that  necessity  disappeared  as  the  game 
went  on,  and  perhaps  he  alone,  of  the  whole 
far-reaching  conspiracy,  was  prepared  to  strike 
at  the  Union  for  the  benefit  of  the  foreigner. 

Plans  were  being  perfected,— army  officers 
being  secretly  misled  and  won  over  by  the 
specious  talk  of  “ their  country’s  wrongs,”  and 
each  move  made  Borgrevinck  more  surely  the 
head  of  it  all, — when  a quarrel  between  him- 
self and  the  “ deliverer  ” occurred  over  the 
question  of  recompense.  Wealth  untold  they 
were  willing  to  furnish  ; but  regal  power,  never. 
The  quarrel  became  more  acute.  Borgrevinck 
continued  to  attend  all  meetings,  but  was  ever 

349 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

more  careful  to  centre  all  power  in  himself,  and 
even  prepared  to  turn  round  to  the  king’s  party 
if  necessary  to  further  his  ambition.  The  be- 
trayal of  his  followers  would  purchase  his  own 
safety.  But  proofs  he  must  have,  and  he  set 
about  getting  signatures  to  a declaration  of 
rights  which  was  simply  a veiled  confession 
of  treason.  Many  of  the  leaders  he  had  de- 
luded into  signing  this  before  the  meeting  at 
Laersdalsoren.  Here  they  met  in  the  early 
winter,  some  twenty  of  the  patriots,  some  of 
them  men  of  position,  all  of  them  men  of  brains 
and  power.  Here,  in  the  close  and  stifling 
parlor,  they  planned,  discussed,  and  questioned. 
Great  hopes  were  expressed,  great  deeds  were 
forecast,  in  that  stove-hot  room. 

Outside,  against  the  fence,  in  the  winter 
night,  was  a Great  White  Reindeer,  harnessed 
to  a sled,  but  lying  down  with  his  head  doubled 
back  on  his  side  as  he  slept,  calm,  unthought- 
ful, ox-like.  Which  seemed  likelier  to  decide 
the  nation’s  fate,  the  earnest  thinkers  indoors, 
or  the  ox-like  sleeper  without?  Which  seemed 
more  vital  to  Israel,  the  bearded  council  in 
King  Saul’s  tent,  or  the  light-hearted  shepherd- 

350 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

boy  hurling  stones  across  the  brook  at  Bethle- 
hem? At  Laersdalsoren  it  was  as  before:  de- 
luded by  Borgrevinck’s  eloquent  plausibility, 
all  put  their  heads  in  the  noose,  their  lives  and 
country  in  his  hands,  seeing  in  this  treacherous 
monster  a very  angel  of  self-sacrificing  patriot- 
ism. All  ? No,  not  all.  Old  Sveggum  was 
there.  He  could  neither  read  nor  write.  That 
was  his  excuse  for  not  signing.  He  could  not 
read  a letter  in  a book,  but  he  could  read 
something  of  the  hearts  of  men.  As  the  meet- 
ing broke  up  he  whispered  to  Axel  Tanberg: 

“ Is  his  own  name  on  that  paper?  ” And  Axel, 
starting  at  the  thought,  said:  “No."  Then 
said  Sveggum : “ I don’t  trust  that  man.  They 
ought  to  know  of  this  at  Nystuen.”  For  there  j] 
was  to  be  the  really  important  meeting.  But  : 
how  to  let  them  know  was  the  riddle.  Borgre-  ^ 
vinck  was  going  there  at  once  with  his  fast 
Horses.  I 

Sveggum’s  eye  twinkled  as  he  nodded  toward  f 
the  Storbuk,  standing  tied  to  the  fence.  Bor-  | 
grevinck  leaped  into  his  sleigh  and  went  off  at  ' 
speed,  for  he  was  a man  of  energy. 

Sveggum  took  the  bells  from  the  harness, 


35i 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


untied  the  Reindeer,  stepped  into  the  pulk. 
He  swung  the  single  rein,  clucked  to  the  Stor- 
buk,  and  also  turned  his  head  toward  Nystuen. 
The  fast  Horses  had  a long  start,  but  before 
they  had  climbed  the  eastward  hill  Sveggum 
needs  must  slack,  so  as  not  to  overtake  them. 
He  held  back  till  they  came  to  the  turn  above 
the  woods  at  Maristuen  ; then  he  quit  the  road, 
and  up  the  river  flat  he  sped  the  Buk,  a farther 
way,  but  the  only  way  to  bring  them  there 
ahead. 

Squeaky  crack — squeak , crack — squeaky  crack 
— at  regular  intervals  from  the  great  spreading 
snow-shoes  of  the  Storbuk,  and  the  steady 
sough  of  his  breath  was  like  the  Nordland  as 
she  passes  up  the  Hardanger  Fjord.  High  up, 
on  the  smooth  road  to  the  left,  they  could  hear 
the  jingle  of  the  horse-bells  and  the  shouting 
of  Borgrevinck’s  driver,  who,  under  orders,  was 
speeding  hard  for  Nystuen. 

The  highway  was  a short  road  and  smooth, 
and  the  river  valley  was  long  and  rough ; but 
when,  in  four  hours,  Borgrevinck  got  to  Nys- 
tuen, there  in  the  throng  was  a face  that  he 
had  just  left  at  Laersdalsoren.  He  appeared 


352 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

not  to  notice,  though  nothing  ever  escaped 
him. 

At  Nystuen  none  of  the  men  would  sign. 
Some  one  had  warned  them.  This  was  serious ; 
might  be  fatal  at  such  a critical  point.  As  he 
thought  it  over,  his  suspicions  turned  more  and 
more  to  Sveggum,  the  old  fool  that  could  not 
write  his  name  at  Laersdalsoren.  But  how 
did  he  get  there  before  himself  with  his  speedy 
Horses? 

There  was  a dance  at  Nystuen  that  night; 
the  dance  was  necessary  to  mask  the  meeting ; 
and  during  that  Borgrevinck  learned  of  the 
swift  White  Ren. 

The  Nystuen  trip  had  failed,  thanks  to  the 
speed  of  the  White  Buk.  Borgrevinck  must 
get  to  Bergen  before  word  of  this,  or  all 
would  be  lost.  There  was  only  one  way,  to 
be  sure  of  getting  there  before  any  one  else. 
Possibly  word  had  already  gone  from  Laers- 
dalsoren. But  even  at  that,  Borgrevinck  could 
get  there  and  save  himself,  at  the  price  of  all 
Norway,  if  need  be,  provided  he  went  with  the 
White  Storbuk.  He  would  not  be  denied.  He 
was  not  the  man  to  give  up  a point,  though  it 

353 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

took  all  the  influence  he  could  bring  to  bear,  this 
time,  to  get  old  Sveggum’s  leave. 

The  Storbuk  was  quietly  sleeping  in  the  cor- 
ral when  Sveggum  came  to  bring  him.  He 
rose  leisurely,  hind  legs  first,  stretched  one, 
then  the  other,  curling  his  tail  tight  on  his  back 
as  he  did  so,  shook  the  hay  from  the  great 
antlers  as  though  they  were  a bunch  of 
twigs,  and  slowly  followed  Sveggum  at  the  end 
of  the  tight  halter.  He  was  so  sleepy  and 
slow  that  Borgrevinck  impatiently  gave  him  a 
kick,  and  got  for  response  a short  snort  from 
the  Buk,  and  from  Sveggum  an  earnest  warn- 
ing, both  of  which  were  somewhat  scornfully 
received.  The  tinkling  bells  on  the  harness 
had  been  replaced,  but  Borgrevinck  wanted 
them  removed.  He  wished  to  go  in  silence. 
Sveggum  would  not  be  left  behind  when  his 
favorite  Ren  went  forth,  so  he  was  given  a seat 
in  the  horse-sleigh  which  was  to  follow,  and 
the  driver  thereof  received  from  his  master  a 
secret  hint  to  delay. 

Then,  with  papers  on  his  person  to  death- 
doom  a multitude  of  misguided  men,  with 
fiendish  intentions  in  his  heart  as  well  as  the 


354 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


power  to  carry  them  out,  and  with  the  fate  of 
Norway  in  his  hands,  Borgrevinck  was  made 
secure  in  the  sled,  behind  the  White  Storbuk, 
and  sped  at  dawn  on  his  errand  of  desola- 
tion. 

At  the  word  from  Sveggum  the  White  Ren 
set  off  with  a couple  of  bounds  that  threw 
Borgrevinck  back  in  the  pulk.  This  angered 
him,  but  he  swallowed  his  wrath  on  seeing  that 
it  left  the  horse-sleigh  behind.  He  shook  the 
line,  shouted,  and  the  Buk  settled  down  to  a 
long,  swinging  trot.  His  broad  hoofs  clicked 
double  at  every  stride.  His  nostrils,  out  level, 
puffed  steady  blasts  of  steam  in  the  frosty 
morning  as  he  settled  to  his  pace.  The  pulk’s 
prow  cut  two  long  shears  of  snow,  that  swirled 
up  over  man  and  sled  till  all  were  white.  And 
the  great  ox-eyes  of  the  King  Ren  blazed  joy- 
ously in  the  delight  of  motion,  and  of  conquest 
too,  as  the  sound  of  the  horse-bells  faded  far 
behind. 

Even  masterful  Borgrevinck  could  not  but 
mark  with  pleasure  the  noble  creature  that  had 
balked  him  last  night  and  now  was  lending  its 
speed  to  his  purpose ; for  it  was  his  intention 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

to  arrive  hours  before  the  horse-sleigh,  if  pos- 
sible. 

Up  the  rising  road  they  sped  as  though 
downhill,  and  the  driver’s  spirits  rose  with  the 
exhilarating  speed.  The  snow  groaned  cease- 
lessly under  the  prow  of  the  pulk,  and  the 
frosty  creaking  under  the  hoofs  of  the  flying 
Ren  was  like  the  gritting  of  mighty  teeth. 
Then  came  the  level  stretch  from  Nystuen’s 
hill  to  Dalecarl’s,  and  as  they  whirled  by  in 
the  early  day,  little  Carl  chanced  to  peep  from 
a window,  and  got  sight  of  the  Great  White 
Ren  in  a white  pulk  with  a white  driver,  just  as 
it  is  in  the  stories  of  the  Giants,  and  clapped 
his  hands,  and  cried,  “ Good,  good  ! ” 

But  his  grandfather,  when  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  white  wonder  that  went  with- 
out even  sound  of  bells,  felt  a cold  chill  in  his 
scalp,  and  went  back  to  light  a candle  that  he 
kept  at  the  window  till  the  sun  was  high,  for 
surely  this  was  the  Storbuk  of  Jotunheim. 

But  the  Ren  whirled  on,  and  the  driver 
shook  the  reins  and  thought  only  of  Bergen. 
He  struck  the  White  Steed  with  the  loose  end 
The  Buk  gave  three  great  snorts 


356 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 


and  three  great  bounds,  then  faster  went,  and 
as  they  passed  by  Dyrskaur,  where  the  Giant 
sits  on  the  edge,  his  head  was  muffled  in  scud, 
which  means  that  a storm  is  coming.  The 
Storbuk  knew  it.  He  sniffed,  and  eyed  the 
sky  with  anxious  look,  and  even  slacked  a 
little;  but  Borgrevinck  yelled  at  the  speeding 
beast,  though  going  yet  as  none  but  he  could 
go,  and  struck  him  once,  twice,  and  thrice,  and 
harder  yet.  So  the  pulk  was  whirled  along 
like  a skiff  in  a steamer’s  wake ; but  there  was 
blood  in  the  Storbuk’s  eye  now ; and  Borgrevinck 
was  hard  put  to  balance  the  sled.  The  miles 
flashed  by  like  roods  till  Sveggum’s  bridge  ap- 
peared. The  storm-wind  now  was  blowing, 
but  there  was  the  Troll.  Whence  came  he  now, 
none  knew,  but  there  he  was,  hopping  on  the 
keystone  and  singing  of 

Norway’s  fate  and  Norway’s  luck, 

Of  the  hiding  Troll  and  the  riding  Buk. 

Down  the  winding  highway  they  came, 
curving  inward  as  they  swung  around  the  cor- 
ner. At  the  voice  on  the  bridge  the  Deer 
threw  back  his  ears  and  slackened  his  pace. 


357 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

Borgrevinck,  not  knowing  whence  it  came, 
struck  savagely  at  the  Ren.  The  red  light 
gleamed  in  those  ox-like  eyes.  He  snorted 
in  anger  and  shook  the  great  horns,  but  he 
did  not  stop  to  avenge  the  blow.  For  him 
was  a vaster  vengeance  still.  He  onward  sped 
as  before,  but  from  that  time  Borgrevinck  had 
lost  all  control.  The  one  voice  that  the  Ren 
would  hear  had  been  left  behind.  They 
whirled  aside,  off  the  road,  before  the  bridge 
was  reached.  The  pulk  turned  over,  but 
righted  itself,  and  Borgrevinck  would  have 
been  thrown  out  and  killed  but  for  the  straps. 
It  was  not  to  be  so  ; it  seemed  rather  as  though 
the  every  curse  of  Norway  had  been  gathered 
into  the  sled  for  a purpose.  Bruised  and  bat- 
tered, he  reappeared.  The  Troll  from  the 
bridge  leaped  lightly  to  the  Storbuk’s  head,  and 
held  on  to  the  horns  as  he  danced  and  sang  his 
ancient  song,  and  a new  song,  too : 

Ha!  at  last ! Oh,  lucky  day, 

Norway’s  curse  to  wipe  away! 

Borgrevinck  was  terrified  and  furious.  He 
struck  harder  at  the  Storbuk  as  he  bounded 

358 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

over  the  rougher  snow,  and  vainly  tried  to  con- 
trol him.  He  lost  his  head  in  fear.  He  got 
out  his  knife,  at  last,  to  strike  at  the  wild  Buk’s 
hamstrings,  but  a blow  from  the  hoof  sent  it 
flying  from  his  hand.  Their  speed  on  the  road 
was  slow  to  that  they  now  made : no  longer 
striding  at  the  trot,  but  bounding  madly,  great 
five-stride  bounds,  the  wretched  Borgrevinck 
strapped  in  the  sled,  alone  and  helpless  through 
his  own  contriving,  screaming,  cursing,  and 
praying.  The  Storbuk  with  bloodshot  eyes, 
madly  steaming,  careered  up  the  rugged  ascent, 
up  to  the  broken,  stormy  Hoifjeld;  mounting 
the  hills  as  a Petrel  mounts  the  rollers,  skim- 
ming the  flats  as  a Fulmar  skims  the  shore,  he 
followed  the  trail  where  his  mother  had  first 
led  his  tottering  steps,  up  from  the  Vand-dam 
nook.  He  followed  the  old  familiar  route  that 
he  had  followed  for  five  years,  where  the  white- 
winged Rype  flies  aside,  where  the  black  rock 
mountains,  shining  white,  come  near  and  block 
the  sky,  “where  the  Reindeer  find  their  mys- 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

a whirlwind  over  the  shoulder  of  Suletind,  over 
the  knees  of  Torholmenbrse— the  Giants  that 
sit  at  the  gateway.  Faster  than  man  or  beast 
could  follow,  up— up — up — and  on;  and  no 
one  saw  them  go,  but  a Raven  that  swooped 
behind,  and  flew  as  Raven  never  flew,  and  the 
Troll,  the  same  old  Troll  that  sang  by  the 
Vand-dam,  and  now  danced  and  sang  between 
the  antlers: 


Good  luck,  good  luck  for  Norway 
With  the  White  Storbuk  comes  riding. 


Over  Tvindehoug  they  faded  like  flying  scud 
on  the  moorlands,  on  to  the  gloomy  distance, 
away  toward  Jotunheim,  the  home  of  the  Evil 
Spirits,  the  Land  of  the  Lasting  Snow.  Their 
every  sign  and  trail  was  wiped  away  by  the 
drifting  storm,  and  the  end  of  them  no  man 
knows. 

The  Norse  folk  awoke  as  from  a horrid 
nightmare.  Their  national  ruin  was  averted; 
there  were  no  deaths,  for  there  were  no  proofs ; 
and  the  talebearer’s  strife  was  ended. 

The  one  earthly  sign  remaining  from  that 
360 

,'V) 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

drive  is  the  string  of  silver  bells  that  Sveggum 
had  taken  from  the  Storbuk’s  neck— the  vic- 
tory bells,  each  the  record  of  a triumph  won ; 
and  when  the  old  man  came  to  understand,  he 
sighed,  and  hung  to  the  string  a final  bell,  the 
largest  of  them  all. 

Nothing  more  was  ever  seen  or  heard  of 
the  creature  who  so  nearly  sold  his  country,  or 
of  the  White  Storbuk  who  balked  him.  Yet 
those  who  live  near  Jotunheim  say  that  on 
stormy  nights,  when  the  snow  is  flying  and  the 
wind  is  raving  in  the  woods,  there  sometimes 
passes,  at  frightful  speed,  an  enormous  White 
Reindeer  with  fiery  eyes,  drawing  a snow-white 
pulk,  in  which  is  a screaming  wretch  in  white, 
and  on  the  head  of  the  Deer,  balancing  by  the 
horns,  is  a brown-clad,  white-bearded  Troll, 
bowing  and  grinning  pleasantly  at  him,  and 
singing 


Of  Norway’s  luck 
And  a White  Storbuk  — 


the  same,  they  say,  as  the  one  that  with  pro- 
phetic vision  sang  by  Sveggum’s  Vand-dam  on 
361 


The  Legend  of  the  White  Reindeer 

a bygone  day  when  the  birches  wore  their 
springtime  hangers,  and  a great  mild-eyed 
Varsimle  came  alone,  to  go  away  with  a little 
white  Renskalv  walking  slowly,  demurely,  by 
her  side. 


362 


The  Passing  of  the  King  Ren. 


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